by M J Porter
They were not alone. Ælfgar was also perplexed.
A short while later, the company came to a milling halt. Ælfgar hung back, keen to know, but not desperate to be involved in what happened next.
There was no holy ground close to them. Instead, the wide Thames flowed by at a desultory pace, this far upriver; the tidal reach of the river having run out, but it was the boggy ground that seemed to excite the king.
“This is the place,” Harthacnut called, turning to glare at Earl Godwine and Archbishop Ælfric, his intentions suddenly becoming clear to Ælfgar.
The two men approached the cart warily. Neither of them wanted to be there, that much was clear. The lead horses were held as still as possible by two of Harthacnut’s men as Earl Godwine, and Archbishop Ælfric paused before the cart. Neither seemed keen to be the first to touch the corpse.
“Be quick about it,” Harthacnut complained, “and remember to tie the cord around the feet so that he sinks quickly into the bog.”
Ælfgar grimaced as he watched the two older men handle the corpse while they tied a thick piece of hemp rope around what he hoped was Harald’s feet. With that done, Earl Godwine took the head end of the body, and Archbishop Ælfric the bottom, and they heaved Harald from the cart, only for him to fall with a loud thud onto the hard-packed floor.
Ælfgar winced at the wet sound of the body hitting the ground.
Harthacnut’s voice cut through the air sharper than a scythe.
“I don’t mean to be about this task all day long.”
Earl Godwine and Archbishop Ælfric didn’t even pause to answer their king but instead hastened to pick up the body one more time. Their faces shone with moisture. On staggering footsteps, their burden slung between them, they tottered to where Harthacnut was waiting impatiently, mounted on his horse.
Sweat beaded down the faces of both men. Ælfgar, as much as he wanted to enjoy seeing Earl Godwine’s humiliation at the hands of the king, was too angry with the king to have anything but sympathy for both men.
With a squelching noise, the body was flung into the boggy ground. Ælfgar didn’t want to watch, but neither could he turn away. Why, he thought, had the king brought his despised half-brother to this godforsaken place? All well and good to remove him from his burial in the church but this was just too much. It would have been acceptable to take the body to Gainsborough to lie beside his grandfather.
Harald hadn’t exactly enamoured himself with the English people. There would be few enough who mourned him anyway and even less in Gainsborough. Now that Lady Ælfgifu was gone from England, with her grandson and daughter by marriage, safely taken away by Ælfgar’s cousins, and at his instigation, there would be even fewer.
Ælfgar watched on as a stone was tied to the slowly sinking body, using the thick hemp rope. Earl Godwine and Archbishop Ælfric were further encouraged by the king to fling a heavy stone in after Harald’s body. The stone, effortlessly carried by one of Harthacnut’s Danish ship-men, proved almost too heavy for the two older men to hoist between them.
The smell from the bog was overripe already, and Ælfgar grimaced with distaste, almost turning away. Still, he knew there was a responsibility to witness Harthacnut’s actions. His wife might ask him where Harald’s body lay, and in time, it might be that Harald’s son would seek him out and ask the same. Who knew what the future had in store for the child Harald had never even known had been born.
But Ælfgar’s gaze settled on Earl Godwine and Archbishop Ælfric as they struggled with the heavy piece of stone. Ælfgar squinted, trying to determine where the stone might have come from. It looked like a piece of Roman masonry, perhaps a part of the fabric of London’s wall. Better for it to have been left on the wall than brought here. It would have done more good if it had been returned to the wall, to patch one of the many broken-down places that had appeared since Cnut had tried to forcefully take England all those years ago.
“Help them,” Harthacnut snapped the command. Two of his warriors, bristling with weapons and muscles both, easily slid the stone into the bog, ensuring it landed further in than on the fringe where tough grasses grew. Ælfgar was surprised there was no sign to warn people of the danger, so close to the Thames.
Perhaps the presence of the bog was just known by all the local residents. They might even have relied on it in the past to prevent the Raiders from making landfall. The irony of the thought wasn’t lost on Ælfgar.
With his gaze settled on Harthacnut, his hand holding the reins of his horse tightly, Ælfgar watched Harthacnut’s stony expression as his brother was submerged, never to be seen again. It was, Ælfgar considered, a means of ensuring that Harald’s remains could never be disturbed again.
Squinting into the daylight, Ælfgar looked behind him, trying to find some means of fixing the new burial place in his mind. A stray oak tree far in the distance caught his attention, as did the sharp snag in the smooth running of the Thames. And in the further distance, a small village, the smoke from hearth fires rising above it, darkened the skyline, as though rain would fall soon.
In time, Ælfgar would be able to have a memorial erected here, for Harald. In the meantime, he would find the most local monastery or nunnery and ensure prayers were said for his foster-brother. It was the least he could do.
“No,” Harthacnut’s voice was loud and firm as he spoke, snapping all who had fallen into lethargy caused by the heat, to attention. Ælfgar’s head whipped around. Now what, he thought.
“No, this is not suitable. Bring up the body. If we leave him here, people will learn where he is, despite my best attempts. I’ll allow no one to pray at the bastard’s graveside, or mourn him publicly. This place will not become a focus for pilgrims or the desperate.”
Ælfgar’s head swivelled to the figures of Earl Godwine and Archbishop Ælfric, watching their shoulders slump with disbelief. Both men had dressed in their finery for Harthacnut’s disinterment of his half-brother’s body. They were now streaked with muck and filth. Neither man looked as though they had the strength to do any more. Earl Godwine was far beyond his days of riding to war, and Archbishop Ælfric had spent more time praying than fighting in his life. Neither of the two men was peak specimens of fitness.
Yet both men turned back to the bog without so much as raising a word of complaint to the king. Ælfgar was amazed. Had Earl Godwine truly become so fearful that Harthacnut would banish him from England, that he was allowing himself to be so publicly humiliated?
Ælfgar dropped his horse’s reins and moved closer, curious to see how Earl Godwine and Archbishop Ælfric were going to attempt to recover the body. He knew his horse would stay. The animal was busy cropping at the tall grasses that grew so close to the edge of the water.
Earl Godwine was down on his knees, reaching precariously over the edge of the bog. A small fragment of the hemp rope was still just about visible above the waterline. As Ælfgar watched, Earl Godwine attempted to grab the rope, and when he failed, turned to Archbishop Ælfric.
“Get me a branch, or something longer than my arm, and be quick about it.” Earl Godwine’s voice was rich with the usual command of his exalted position. Ælfgar thought the contrast between what the earl thought he was, and what the king thought he was, couldn’t have been any more easily displayed.
The archbishop almost turned full circle looking for something long enough, only for Lord Beorn to offer a piece of wood without so much as a word.
“My thanks,” Archbishop Ælfric muttered, before turning to place it in the frantically opening and closing hand of Earl Godwine. Ælfgar honestly couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
With the branch, Earl Godwine was able to hook the rope, and then tugged upwards, as though that would make the body reappear, which of course it didn’t.
Harthacnut didn’t seem to be watching the labours of his earl and archbishop. Yet, Ælfgar detected a hint of impatience as the king’s fingers tapped the top of his thigh.
Earl Godwine tried once m
ore, hooking the rope, and tugging upwards but once more, nothing happened.
“You’ll have to attach the branch to the rope, and then we’ll get ropes to pull it out.” It was Archbishop Ælfric who spoke.
“My Lord King,” the archbishop’s voice was filled with respect. “We’ll need the aid of your men to accomplish this.”
It was evident that Harthacnut heard the request, for ten of his men joined the strange arrangement on the edge of the bog. Other than that, Harthacnut stayed as immobile as the stone he’d commanded be thrown into the bog after the body. Lord Otto was attentive at his side.
What did Harthacnut have planned now, Ælfgar considered, but realised he had a fair idea, as the Thames continued to flow at his back. What better place to ‘lose’ the body of his half-brother than in the fast-flowing waters of the Thames. Provided that was, the twelve men could extract the body from the bog.
But they did seem to be making progress. Earl Godwine had managed to ensnare the branch into the hemp rope, and more rope had also been sourced, no doubt to hook the body, or the stone, whichever reappeared first.
While Earl Godwine and Archbishop Ælfric tried to heave on the short branch, the ten other men stood ready to help, and one by one, they joined the strange scene, adding their strength to the earl and the archbishop’s efforts.
It was such a waste of time. Harthacnut should have left Harald where he had been buried.
It was the stone that reappeared first. While Earl Godwine and Archbishop Ælfric continued to pull it free from the sucking bog, two of Harthacnut’s men lay stretched out as far as they could over the lip of the bog. Another two had a firm hold of their feet; as they reached for the stone, keen to bring it back to the drier land. With the rope still attached to Harald’s feet, it would be easier to extract his body, once they had the stone.
Harthacnut looked on, his expression almost bored, although his fingers continued to tap his thigh, as the summer’s day grew ever warmer and warmer.
Ælfgar licked his dry lips, wishing he’d not left his water on his horse’s saddle, but not prepared to retrieve it now. He was resolved to seeing everything.
With a muted cheer, the two men on the edge of the bog managed to bring the stone to the side of the fetid ground. It enabled Earl Godwine and Archbishop Ælfric to transfer their strength away from the stone, and onto the hemp rope that all hoped was still attached to Harald’s body.
While the two older men grew redder and redder in the face, as grim-faced as their king, Harthacnut’s warriors watched on.
It would go much quicker, Ælfgar decided, if Earl Godwine and Archbishop Ælfric moved aside and let the younger, and much fitter men, take their place. But neither of them even attempted such an exchange. No doubt, it would have displeased Harthacnut, and both men were not prepared to do that. That much was evident.
Eventually, as the pair pulled the length of the rope, something erupted from the bog, feet first. Ælfgar was suddenly pleased he hadn’t drunk anything because he tasted vomit in his mouth. The cover that had surrounded Harald’s body had worked itself free, and now he stared at the half decomposed face of his foster-brother.
The skin on the face had sunken and turned black, and now muddy tears seemed to pool from Harald’s sightless eyes, and it was the eyes that held Ælfgar’s attention. They were empty sockets, little more, and yet the remains of the eyeballs still lingered. Ælfgar rushed from the side of the bog and vomited noisily, as far from the bog and the king as he could get.
He was suddenly sure that the king and his Danish ship-men would have seen far worse in their time, and Ælfgar was unwilling to earn their ridicule.
He’d eaten little before joining the procession to St Peter’s Church but all the same, he heaved and heaved until there was nothing but bile in his stomach, and still he heaved, unable to stop.
Ælfgar was only able to stand some time later, and when he did, his gaze swept to the riverbank. Ælfgar had been right in his assumption. Harthacnut stood on the riverbank, as a sodden and grimy Earl Godwine and Archbishop Ælfric once more carried the disturbed remains of Harald, wrapped tightly in its shroud, to the river’s edge.
“Do it,” Harthacnut’s voice sounded like thunder, and no one raised a complaint against his fresh decision. Ælfgar stumbled to the river’s edge, trying not to see, and yet needing to see his foster brother’s body, all at the same time.
He caught the flicker of black skin before the body was pulled into the gentle current. There it bobbed to the surface, head first, sightless eyes seeming to issue a complaint, before sinking just below it. There was silence as everyone watched the body slowly sink, the head the final part to be covered by the waters of the river.
But Ælfgar stayed longer, desperate to see if the body resurfaced once more. All around him, the party returned to their horses and set off back towards London, including Earl Godwine and Archbishop Ælfric in their ruined clothing.
Ælfgar watched them go uneasily; pleased when the king rode from sight, seemingly without being aware he’d even been there.
Still, Ælfgar hesitated, unsure what to do.
Only as the light started to bleach from the summer’s sky did he turn to his solitary horse, and spur the animal toward London.
He needed to find his father. He’d know what to do. And more, he’d support Ælfgar in what he wanted to do.
Chapter 5
AD1040
Leofric
The stench of the river assaulted Leofric’s nostrils.
Once more, he felt disgusted at what he was doing, but more, horror at what Harthacnut had done.
And not just Harthacnut. He’d not acted alone, and the fact it had been done so publicly filled Leofric with revulsion.
Harald might not have been the king he should have been, but he had deserved his royal burial. Harthacnut’s hatred ran too deep.
The king had caused Harald’s body to be exhumed and tossed into a bog.
That had been bad enough, and Earl Godwine had helped the new king, with almost unseemly relish.
So too had Archbishop Ælfric.
That should have been enough, but it hadn’t been, and now Leofric stood in the prow of a ship, two men to either side of him holding brands high above the level of the water. Leofric held a long pole in his hand, and with it, he stabbed down into the water of the Thames, time and time again.
The things he’d brought to the top of the gurgling water to the east of London itself had filled his mouth with bile. But none of them had been the body of his foster-son. Although some of them had been much worse.
The half-eaten corpse of a dog. The putrid remains of a sheep. Lost shoes, cloaks and anything else that could have been discarded or lost, before being hooked from the water.
Beside their ship, another six crafts stretched across the swollen belly of the Thames.
The Danish of London had determined to bury the son of their much-loved king, honourably, and in their church. They little cared if they earned the enmity of their new Danish king.
Leofric had joined them; pleased to know he’d not been alone in his desire to hunt down the missing body of King Harald.
He could only be pleased that King Harald’s mother was gone from England. She would not have survived this fresh calamity to befall her family.
Leofric felt that he hardly would.
The sucking sounds of the Thames filled the night. The rush of water and the gurgle of the water beneath the ship.
“There, there,” a cry from one of the men with the brands, forced Leofric to squint into the gloom. Mist covered much of the river, curling around his hands, and obscuring his feet. It reflected what little light there was back at him. Still, he peered into the gloom, hoping to see the body of the man he searched for. He also prayed that he wouldn’t be unlucky enough to have to see the disturbed remains of his dead king again.
Finally, catching sight of a piece of sodden fabric, Leofric angled his pole toward it. He tried to hook
it, and when that failed, adjusted his grip so that he could stab downwards instead.
Biting his lip with the effort, Leofric twisted and pulled, the mass coming closer and closer to the side of the ship.
Two more hands stretched out; ready to grab the material while the torches were held ever higher in the hope of seeing more before a potentially grisly discovery.
“Damn,” the piece of fabric was only that, perhaps lost in the flow of the Thames from the side of another ship.
Irritated, his companion threw the fabric into the barrel that had started off as empty, but which now reeked of the Thames. There was no point in leaving their findings in the water. They would only be found by one of the other ships.
Leofric sighed in frustration, rubbing at his tired eyes and shaking his head in frustration.
How much easier would it be to conduct the search during the day, but they couldn’t risk Harthacnut discovering what they were doing.
Leofric and Ælfgar had joined with the Danish of London, to seek the body of King Harald. They’d vowed not to give up until they could say Harald had been correctly buried once more. But this was the second night they’d laboured all night, and Leofric was beginning to worry that they’d somehow missed the body.
The tide had risen and fallen three times since then. Yes, the body might have become snagged in the shallows, or even sunk so low that it was out of reach. Still, no one who lived in London and along the banks of the Thames truly believed that any object tossed into the Thames was ever truly gone. Everything washed up, eventually.
But maybe not this particular body.
It had been four months since Harald’s death. Leofric knew that they searched for something that would no doubt have disintegrated into more than one part. Ælfgar had warned that the body had been wrapped but that the coarse fabric had already ripped once. Every time a cry went up from one of the other ships, Leofric expected it to be for a hand, or a foot, maybe even just a slither of clothing, and certainly not the entire body.
