Northman Part 2

by M J Porter

  Æthelred had sent word of the Witan he’d be holding in the summer and with it had come his demand for a huge geld to be paid to Thorkell and Olaf and their men. It galled to know that he was paying the men for doing nothing more onerous than siding with Æthelred against Swein. The king had fled the country and left his people to Swein’s unrelenting attacks and still he was unhappy and exacting his petty revenge on the people of England. Every time Leofwine thought about it, he grew angry and lashed out at whoever happened to irritate him at that exact moment. He always apologised when he was calm again but was gaining a reputation for being grumpy, and he resented that too. Damn the bloody king.

  Leofric and the household warriors were training hard in the bright sunlight, and Leofwine was almost tempted to join them. But then there was a nudge on his hand, and he looked at his old hound. It was him who’d tempted Leofwine outside, and they’d promised each other that they’d just take a gentle walk and then return indoors or find somewhere quiet to sit a while. There’d been no discussion of actually training or fighting.

  His new hound was a faithful beast and content to share his new master with his distant relative, and on those occasions, he could always be found with Eadwine. The boy was still shooting ever upwards and although Leofwine had never discovered just what Eadwine had done to warrant his punishment and knew he’d never ask either. It was perhaps better not to. He’d not been there to issue a penalty, and his wife had done what she could to teach him the error of his ways. It appeared to have worked for he was never in trouble. Not like his three older brothers had once been.

  The sound of approaching riders turned his attention away from the training men, and he looked towards his open gateway wondering who was visiting him. His hall had been quiet since his return, but he’d known it wouldn’t last.

  A group of twenty or so riders approached at a moderate speed towards his hall, and he called to Æthelflæd that guests would need welcoming. It was Mildryth who rushed to the door, hoping that it was Northman but her face deflated long before Leofwine worked out who it was. He felt a slight shudder of dread when he saw Edmund, but he quickly shook off his uneasiness and went himself to greet the young Prince.

  He looked changed by his brother’s death, and it took Leofwine the entire duration of his visit to decide if it was a good or a bad change. He looked older and wiser, and more regal and yet more vulnerable all at the same time. Leofwine supposed that suddenly becoming the king’s probable heir would bring all sorts of new problems and fears for the lad and he resolved to be as pleasant as he could be.

  Edmund leapt from his horse with a vigour that Leofwine resented, but when he presented himself to him, he seemed aged beyond his vigour. His face was haggard, and his eyes were haunted with their grief. His clothes were road dusty but beautiful, and his horse was well cared for. Leofwine recognised the symptoms of pain, and it made him look away with a flash of memory for his father’s death, and then that of Wulfstan.

  At his side were two men that Leofwine recognised from the Mercian lands, Morcar and Sigeforth, sons of once powerful men, now attempting to make their impression on the king and his Witan.

  Or not as the case might be. Leofwine eyed them with interest.

  “My sympathies for your loss,” Leofwine said with heartfelt sympathy and a small smile touched Edmund’s eyes.

  “My thanks, Lord Leofwine. My brother thought highly of you and wished to see you before his death, but sadly it overcame him before he was ready.”

  Leofwine grasped Edmund’s hand and felt the slight tremor there. He’d never had a flesh and bones brother. He’d never known that bond, and while he was aware that it could cause many, many problems, Athelstan did seem to have genuinely liked and enjoyed his brother’s company.

  “The king is well?” Leofwine asked, almost as an afterthought, and this time, Edmund’s face darkened with annoyance.

  “As always, he’s surrounded by his ‘loyal’ followers as opposed to his elder sons. Emma has landed and re-joined him, and she’s bought the younger children with her. Everything is as if Swein never claimed England. Cnut is gone, and only the payment of the geld to Thorkell and Olaf’s fleet casts even the smallest concern over events.”

  “He wasn’t affected by your brother’s death?” Leofwine asked as they began to walk towards his hall. Inside he could hear the scurrying of feet and slowed his pace a little. Clearly, Æthelflæd needed a few more moments to prepare the hall. Edmund didn’t seem to notice, and the two other men were too busy surveying his hall. The men who’d accompanied Edmund were checking their horses and milling around. Leofwine was relieved when Leofric noticed the arrival of the party and called an end to practice so that all the warriors could talk if they wished. He’d have to remember to provide them all with food and drink. It was a pleasantly warm day and one bound to make everyone thirsty.

  “He made all the right noises and honoured my brother’s will, but more than that, it’s hard to tell.”

  Leofwine didn’t want to press what was surely a point of contention, and so he only lapsed into silence until they were sat in his hall, out of the bright daylight, and as far from the burning hearth as it was possible to be. It was warm enough without the fire on, but they needed it to cook.

  Æthelflæd joined her husband and presented food and drink to the three younger men. She must have recognised both Morcar and Sigeforth as she became a little more animated when she saw them, asking after their parents and their brothers and sisters. Sometimes Leofwine forgot how deeply entrenched she and her family had been in Mercian affairs. It was he who was the interloper.

  “I saw your son at Gainsborough,” Edmund said, keeping his voice low but including Æthelflæd in the conversation. “We had an interesting discussion, and I said, or rather Athelstan did, that we would also speak to you of our concerns. But, to assure you all, he was well, and he fought well. I think the battle turned his stomach a little. It was hard for him to fight those who only months ago were his friends.”

  Leofwine had tensed at the news of his son, but he relaxed a little when he realised that Edmund had more than likely discussed Northman’s intentions with Eadric. He was here to press the advantage and ask for his family’s support, and clearly, Northman had already given it. He sighed deeply wondering what intrigue this would cause his family now. He was trying to keep a low profile and not alert the king about his unhappiness and discontent. As far as he was concerned, he had aided the king in his return to power simply by not offering Cnut the endorsement he’d originally wanted. And that was all he wanted to do.

  “It pleases me to know that Northman fought well and that he prospers. We’ve not heard from him for some time. Obviously, it’s difficult for him to send messengers to us when we’re estranged in the eyes of Eadric.”

  Edmund nodded in understanding.

  “I’ve tried to make it a little easier, to give him one of my men whom he can command as he must, but, as with you, we’ve not heard anything yet.”

  Leofwine lapsed into silence, drinking deeply as he did so. The mead was good, banishing his thirst. He wished there was such an easy solution to the problem of the kingdom.

  “I imagine there’s nothing to report. The King is content, and that means that Eadric will be content. For now. Is Thorkell to leave England with his fleet?”

  “No, he’ll stay, unfortunately. The only good thing about it is that Thorkell and Eadric are deeply mistrustful of each other, and with good cause, I imagine. I think for the time being they might balance each other out. Olaf has gone to Norway with the king’s blessing and a quiet word that he causes Cnut and Harald as much trouble as possible. He has his eye on the throne of Norway as his namesake did before him.”

  “I wish him luck with that,” Morcar interjected a little sullenly.

  “You don’t like him?” Leofwine asked. He wanted to know more about these young men who appeared to be his allies now almost without his agreement.

  “I find him
too much like Cnut, and him I don’t like either. The Norsemen are a strange lot. Those who live in England have been tempered by our more civilised ways.”

  Leofwine bit back his angry retort and asked no more questions. Clearly, Morcar was no fan of anyone from the Danish or Norwegian lands. Perhaps he’d never met the right men.

  Sigeforth hadn’t yet spoken for all that he was comfortably seated and paying close attention to the conversation. He was, however, staring meaningfully at Edmund. Edmund took another swig of his drink and then began to speak.

  “I talked to your son about him standing with me when the king dies. My father is weaker than everyone thinks. He hides it well behind his smiles and his exquisite clothing, but his age is creeping up on him. He’s never been particularly fit but now he huffs, and he puffs whenever he has to move. Emma tries her best to prevent others from realising. She needs him to live until her sons are old enough to take the throne themselves, but for all her efforts, I don’t think he’ll survive for much longer.”

  “And?” Leofwine asked, knowing the answer but asking it anyway.

  “When he dies, I want to know that I have a power base behind me in the Mercian lands that counters anything that Cnut or Eadric has accumulated. I have Sigeforth and Morcar, and I want you as well.”

  Leofwine wasn’t surprised by the request. It made sense to ensure he had his votes in the Witan before his father’s death but it made him feel a little twinge of remorse for Æthelred. He wasn’t dead yet and yet most thoughts were on a time when he would be. He must surely be aware as well if he was as ill as Edmund implied.

  “You plan on claiming the throne?”

  “I do. I am the king’s oldest son, and I have the skills and the family lineage, my grandmother saw to that when I was a small child. At all costs, Cnut must be driven back from the English shores, and Æthelred’s younger sons must be barred from the throne. We can’t survive with a minor on the throne.”

  Leofwine considered the prince’s words and failed to find any flaw in the logic, other than the basic flaw that it was highly likely that Edmund had underestimated how badly Cnut wanted the throne.

  “I’ve been your father’s man throughout my adult life, apart from when he lost the kingdom. I serve my king as I should, I don’t make kings. I never have.”

  Edmund’s face clouded in anger at the flat remark, but Leofwine hadn’t finished yet.

  “That said, I don’t want the country to fall into strife again. The people and the land need peace to prosper. I’ll do what I can and if you come before the Witan and ask to be king, I’ll vote for you.”

  Sigeforth finally spoke at those words.

  “You’ve made the right choice Leofwine. The throne of the English needs to stay in the hands of the royal family of Wessex. It’s not a Danish plaything.”

  Leofwine hoped he’d made the right decision as he toasted his future king and the conversation became a little less fraught. Æthelflæd had stayed to listen to their conversation, and she was still at his side. It was impossible to tell whether she approved of what he’d said or not, but he was sure he’d find out later.

  It was also evident that he’d not be able to hide away at Deerhurst as he’d initially hoped to do. They might well have Æthelred back as their king, but Edmund was right to worry. The king was ageing. He’d been king for thirty-six years now, apart from the months he’d been in Normandy. His early years had been overcast by his mother’s dominance, his later years by the ravages of the Raiders. Only during his middle years had he accomplished what he wanted to do.

  Then he’d been able to buy off the Raiders when they’d made their sporadic attacks. He’d been able to reform the monetary system, make new laws and assist the Church whenever he’d wanted to. Now he was forced to do little but react and hope for a positive outcome. Leofwine almost wondered why he’d wanted his throne back. He’d surely been more comfortable in Normandy where he’d had little to do except play with his children and pray to his God, and probably enjoy his wife.

  The rest of the day passed in a conversation of little importance and then the prince and his supporters left leaving in their wake a curious son and a concerned commander. Leofric and Oscetel both gravitated towards him as soon as the gates to their compound were closed for the night. Their expressions were of open curiosity, and Leofwine told them of his conversation. Neither had any real objections to what he’d done, but he could tell from the way that Oscetel gazed after Edmund that he was worried. And he wasn’t the only one.

  Chapter 17

  AD1014

  Northman

  The King’s Witan

  Northman hadn’t seen his father since before Easter, and he tried not to search for him amongst the men of the Witan as he took his seat behind Eadric. He’d seen Leofric outside the church so knew that his father would be somewhere, but he’d not yet managed to find him.

  Eadric was speaking expansively with anyone who sought an audience with him. He was riding high in the king’s estimations, and he was gleeful with Cnut’s expulsion from England, taking a lot more credit for it than Northman was happy with. After all what had he done? Sit on his horse and talk a lot!

  Northman was pleased to see Edmund at the Witan. He’d been upset by Athelstan’s death for all that he’d been warned of its imminence. The king was to attend a ceremony to celebrate his son’s life, but Eadric had made no secret of the fact that it was only being done for show. The king felt little remorse at being less another potential claimant to his throne. It was ironic that it was Emma who’d insisted on the service of remembrance. She, after all, had, even more, to gain from Athelstan’s death and had made it abundantly clear that she’d never considered him a real contender for the throne. The king might have found him throne-worthy, but she never had and yet she understood the importance of making it appear as though the king had honoured his son.

  There were rumblings from the Mercian lands where the people had favoured Athelstan. Northman harboured a guess that it was the work of Morcar and Sigeforth and he was pleased that they weren’t just going to let his death pass everyone by without more than a fleeting thought. Athelstan had been imbibed with many qualities that would have made him a fine king and he’d put them to good use in the places where his father’s or Eadric’s loyalties had been wavering.

  He finally found his father as he walked into the Church. At his feet, a hound Northman didn’t recognise walked with his father. He was a noble beast who looked much as Hammer had done, only far, far younger. He felt a little remorse for the old dog, hoping he wasn’t yet dead. His own hound had died a few weeks previously. Olaf had informed him of the news when he’d received a messenger from his brother, Orkning, serving in Leofwine’s household. Northman had shed some tears for his hound and berated himself for not being there. And then Olaf had told him, with a sad smile, of the hounds who were attached to his sons now and he’d felt a little glimmer of joy. At least his boys would know the pleasure of the bond he’d shared with his old dog. And at least he’d died at his home, with his wife and his sons. He’d not been alone and wouldn’t have felt abandoned by his master. Or so he hoped.

  Leofwine was walking with renewed confidence, clearly happy that his hound wouldn’t, as Hammer had had the tendency to do, forget he had a job to do. Northman grinned in delight. His father was very carefully dressed, and he could see his mother’s careful attention to detail when he moved. His tunic was minutely decorated with shining thread that flashed in the flickering candles, around his neck a delicate cross of gold hung, and even the new hound wore a narrow collar that flashed with his own softly padding paws over the wooden floorboards.

  The king couldn’t help but notice his father’s overt show that he worked for the good of his God, not for the king.

  Northman stiffened when the king entered. He too had dressed carefully, only perhaps a little too cautiously. His hair and beard were neatly trimmed and braided, with jewels hanging from them, his crown above his ha
ir. But his tunic was so thick with jewels that it looked as though every movement would be painful and he had no give in his tight tunic. His cloak was edged with the softest white fur from the far northern lands and Northman noted that it was a blatant reminder to all that the king had friends in the very same lands that Cnut did and that he had an army of shipmen whom he could call upon in times of need.

  Northman fingered his tunic and thought of his wife who’d edged it for him when he’d last been home. It had been a gift on the birth of his son, whom he’d not seen since. He sighed, and Olaf nudged him to straighten up and pay a little more attention.

  Wulfstan, the archbishop of London, opened the service, as he had so many times in the past, and for once, his words weren’t as double edged as everyone’s attire. Instead, he spoke plainly of the need to unite and recover, to mourn those who’d been lost and to count each day as God’s desire for the men and women within the Church to accomplish great things in the name of God. Northman was surprised that the wily man hadn’t used it as an opportunity to put forward his thoughts on what should happen now. But then, he’d done that on many other occasions, and he and the king had not always been in agreement about it.

  When the king began to speak and officially opened his Witan, Northman allowed his mind to wonder only to have to recall it when Æthelred began to talk about his plans for the coming year. He spoke of a new tax to keep Thorkell’s fleet within English lands, and his continuing desire to further support the Church and to reform the laws once more. Northman realised there and then that nothing would be accomplished at this Witan. The king, as he had so many times before, was merely going to pretend that there were no underlying issues that needed resolving, no threats that couldn’t be countered by Thorkell and no need to even mention his dead son. Not now.