by M J Porter
“Your cousins have been into Coventry, they’ve attempted to calm the situation, but of course, Wulfstan and Ælfwine know a great deal about what happened in Worcester. They’ll not lie, and the words are far from reassuring.” His mother once more came to a stop before him.
“Then I’ll speak to the people of Coventry and assure them that their earl is very much supporting them. I’ll tell them of the rebuilding work in Worcester, of the people who’ve found new homes on our properties throughout Mercia. I’ll let them know that the king’s reeves will not sell their children.”
“It’ll do no good. They need to hear it from your father.”
Ælfgar refused to allow his mother’s words to upset him. In all honesty, she was right. He was merely the son of the Earl of Mercia. He didn’t have the influence of his father, even if he was respected.
“Have you spoken to them?”
“Of course I’ve spoken to them. How else would I know of these problems?” Her response was acerbic, but Ælfgar refused to quail, as he might have done when a child.
“Then you’ve done well, but we must do better. I’m sure that between the four of us, we can devise a way of defusing the situation.”
“Yes,” Ælfgar was shocked by his mother’s ready agreement, only then realising that her attention had been caught by a commotion at the door.
“What is it?” she called imperiously to the door warden.
Cena looked at Lady Godgifu in embarrassment.
“Apologies, My Lady. I don’t know this man, but he demands to see Lord Ælfgar and is not being very patient.”
Ælfgar stood now, turning to view the man trying to force his way into his mother’s hall. Did he know the man? Perhaps not.
The stranger was red in the face, sweat dripping from his nose, and his face was twisted in a fury beneath heavy brown eyebrows. No, Ælfgar thought, he didn’t know the man.
“I’m one of Earl Eadwulf’s men. Please, I must speak with you.” The man’s voice was rough as he raised it to ensure they heard him.
Ælfgar turned to his mother, mouthing the name. She supplied the information he needed.
“The Earl of Bamburgh,” beneath her breath and Ælfgar immediately beckoned to Cena to allow the man to enter.
Only now did Ælfgar notice how travel-stained the man was, his clothes ripped and torn, only half of his cloak remaining to hang down in a jagged half below his left leg.
“He arrived on foot,” Cena offered as an apology, shadowing the stranger’s movements, not content to trust the stranger yet, his hand lingering close to his seax. Ælfgar appreciated his door warden’s attention to duty.
“I have no horse. The animal was murdered. In the ambush.”
“Ambush?” The word had stilled even Lady Godgifu’s furious complaints about Harthacnut’s taxes, and she beckoned for food and ale for the man.
He downed it, sinking to the seat before the hearth, his breath harsh in his throat, his eyes darting into the far reaches of the hall as though he sensed enemy warriors there.
“You’re safe here,” Ælfgar thought to console. “My men are fiercely loyal to my family. They’ll do nothing to you, provided you do nothing to us.”
“I’m unarmed,” the man admitted, his grey eyes subdued, his arms moving to his waist to show there was no weapons belt there.
“All I had has been lost, in the ambush, and my lord is dead. Killed by men wearing the colours of Earl Siward.”
Above the man’s head, Ælfgar shared a look with his mother and then turned to Cena.
“Have the gates closed and guarded. Ensure everyone is alert, and if they’re not alert, have them replaced.” The words were a snap of the authority his father could command.
Ælfgar had ridden north with a small force of six men. They were currently drinking and eating in the corner of the hall, but Ælfgar knew they would quickly be ready if an attack did come. For now, he gestured for them to resume their meal. It had been a hot ride in the sun. They needed time to replenish their strength.
“Tell me all you know,” Ælfgar asked, pulling a chair forward for his mother, and for himself. They both settled before the stranger.
“My name is Frithugar. I was a sworn warrior to Lord Eadwulf. We came south at the behest of King Harthacnut, to discuss the kingdom of the Scots. He assured Lord Eadwulf of safe passage. Only then we were attacked, and everyone in our party murdered by the huge force that overwhelmed us. There were fifty of the enemy, at least. Lord Eadwulf was only given permission to travel with twenty of his sworn warriors. It was a slaughter.”
Frithugar’s face was haunted, his hand trembling as his eyes took on a faraway look.
Ælfgar swallowed against the horrors the man must have endured.
“Continue, if you can,” Ælfgar encouraged softly, curious as to how the man had managed to survive.
“I was off, in the woods, you know, I had a need. I heard the commotion and came running back to the road, but there was nothing I could do. There were so many of them. I confess, I watched instead of going to the aid of My Lord. I’ll never forgive myself.”
“It wouldn’t have been a worthwhile death to have thrown yourself at a lost cause,” Ælfgar tried to console, but knew before he spoke that his words would be useless. The man must live with his decision on that fateful day. Perhaps a priest could absolve him of his guilt, but Ælfgar was far from convinced.
“My Lord was already dead, his horse cut to pieces beneath him. I watched all of my friends, and My Lord, bleed to death on that road.”
“When was this?”
“Six days ago. I’ve been fearful since then. I’ve travelled at night. I knew I needed to reach the home of Earl Leofric. No one else would believe my story, and the truth must be known.”
“What, that Earl Siward slew Earl Eadwulf?”
“Well yes, My Lord, but more. I stayed and listened to the men. They didn’t leave the dead, but buried them, in a mass grave they’d prepared before we came upon them. Not only did Earl Siward kill the Earl of Bamburgh under a safe passage, but he also did so with the connivance of the king. King Harthacnut ordered the assassination of Lord Eadwulf. The men said it. They laughed about it, saying that Earl Siward would now lay claim to his earldom and rule all of the North for the king.”
Ælfgar leaned back as the man told his story, shock making his legs feel heavy, his arms unresponsive. What had Harthacnut done now?
It was an outrageous story, and Ælfgar could well understand the man’s fear.
“You’re safe here. I assure you. We’ll find a way to return you to your family.”
“No, My Lord. No. I can’t go back to Northumbria, not when it’s known that I survived. My family are in danger, yes, but the danger will be greater if I’m with them. Earl Siward will want to see me dead.”
At Ælfgar’s side, his mother was suddenly on her feet once more, her expression pensive, anger evident in her strident steps.
“The king will stop at nothing to ensure he gets what he wants.” Lady Godgifu’s words were spat through tight lips. Ælfgar might have been tempted to remind her to watch her tongue, but this fresh treachery was too much for him.
“I can’t believe it,” Ælfgar stated, his voice filled with revulsion. “And yet, I also do. The king was unhappy with the arrangement in the North. He feared the Scots, and he feared the Earl of Bamburgh would ally with the Scots under their new king, but this. I’m speechless.”
Ælfgar had almost forgotten the man before him, only to be recalled when he noticed that Frithugar’s head wobbled on his neck.
“You must be exhausted. Come. You can sleep or bathe first if you wish, and we’ll find fresh clothes for you.”
Ælfgar looked around and then beckoned Winhus to his side.
“Can you assist Frithugar? Find him clean clothes, warm water and somewhere to sleep. Ensure others know who he is and that he has the protection of their lord.”
Winhus stood quickly and made his way to Frithugar’s
side. The loyal warrior’s tone was gentle, as he helped the man to stand, and then led him outside, two servants rushing to help.
“Is this why the king sent my father to find Lord Edward? Was this already planned?”
Ælfgar asked the question of no one, but his mother answered all the same.
“Harthacnut must have planned this ever since his return to England. You must travel North, find this mass grave, and the proof of what this man says. We must use the rule of law to exact justice.”
Ælfgar winced at the sharpness of his mother’s tone. No doubt, her thoughts had immediately gone to the execution of Northman, as Ælfgar’s had. But with no memory of Northman, Ælfgar did not feel the infidelity of the king afresh.
“What of Coventry?” Ælfgar wasn’t about to leave his mother alone with the problem she’d been so angry about when he’d arrived.
“I’ll do what I can. As you say, your father is gone, and the people of Coventry need only be patient. Take Wulfstan and Ælfwine with you, and as many of my men as you need. I know you didn’t bring many. If you come across Earl Siward, I can’t see the man thinking twice about attacking you.”
“You’ll remain here?”
“I will yes, for now. But I’ll send word to your Uncle of what’s happened. I’ll put nothing in writing but send one of our trusted warriors. Do you truly think Harthacnut means to start a war amongst his earls, and with the kingdom of the Scots?”
“I think the king believes he still lives in Denmark, where his reach is more autocratic than in England. I believe he forgets himself.” Ælfgar could feel the rage building in his voice.
“Will Frithugar stay here?”
“Yes, I’ll keep him safe, and then we must help him, either to return to Northumbria or to be reunited with his family in Mercia.”
Agreeing with his mother’s words, Ælfgar stepped to her side and bowed.
“Lady Mother, I’ll return as soon as possible.”
“Go with God,” his mother retorted, her face still flushed with her fury, but she leaned upwards and placed a kiss on his forehead all the same. An unexpected show of emotion that made Ælfgar appreciate just how upset his mother was.
“Inform my wife that I’m safe,” Ælfgar announced, turning to stride from the hall he’d only just entered.
He would have cursed his father for leaving England at such an inopportune time, but his father would have had no idea of Harthacnut’s plans. Now, it was up to him to question his king’s actions, and he would do so. No matter the consequences.
Frithugar had managed to give a good description of the ambush site before they rode North, and Ælfgar was confident that with the disturbed ground, it wouldn’t be too hard to find. Following the Fosse Way, with his heavily armed band of warriors, Ælfgar was aware that those who saw them pass might well be alarmed.
Time and time again, he shouted words of assurance to those with frantic faces who called for news, but Ælfgar found he didn’t honestly believe the words.
What, he considered as his horse galloped ever northwards, were Harthacnut’s actual plans for England?
The king had punished all, who’d been involved in having Harald declared as king, apart from his father. He’d grudgingly allowed Earl Godwine to hold his earldom, although Bishop Lyfing had lost many of his holdings. The king had even virtually banished his mother from the court, all the while keeping her close enough to watch.
Instead of his earls, Harthacnut had relied on Danish men to aid him, and this had caused no end of problems, as the murder of the two reeves had highlighted.
But if Harthacnut had given his permission to Earl Siward to arrange the murder of the Earl of Bamburgh, was he beginning to trust his English earls more? Or was it that Siward was a Dane as well?
Cnut had appointed Earl Siward to his position, and he was a warrior. That could never be denied, and one with a great deal of experience.
But why would Harthacnut stir up a potential war with Bamburgh, while having his half-brother declared as his heir?
Ælfgar was aware that none of Harthacnut’s actions appeared rational. They smelt of a man desperate to build a legacy, perhaps with little time to do so.
His father had shared the concerns he had about Harthacnut’s health with Ælfgar. But if Harthacnut were to die, what would he leave behind? A kingdom at war with itself, and virtually penniless as well?
Ælfgar couldn’t help but wish his foster-brother had been less careless and hadn’t died. While an invasion by Harthacnut had been planned, Ælfgar was convinced they would have been able to repel it, and then Harald would have remained king. Then they wouldn’t be facing such difficulties as now.
Within sight of Lincoln, Ælfgar called a halt to their headlong dash along the Fosse Way. They’d spent the night sleeping by the side of the road and had risen at dawn.
No one had disturbed their sleep, although Ælfgar had ordered two men at a time to watch their encampment, taking his own turn before falling into a troubled sleep.
“Earl Siward’s men might be within Lincoln. We need to travel with less haste but be more alert to potential problems.”
No one argued with Ælfgar as he ordered the men to ride with their cloaks covering their bodies. They had no need to travel through Lincoln itself, but Ælfgar was still sure their arrival would be remarked upon. After all, a heavily mounted fighting force was a rare sight these days. While he was reasonably sure that Earl Siward’s force would have returned to Northumbria, he wasn’t prepared to take any risks.
Luckily, the day was overcast, the trees rustled by a brisk breeze, and it made wearing a cloak seem more reasonable than usual during the summer months.
Once on Ermine Street, and heading ever northwards, the sound of the horses’ hooves loud on the ancient roadway, Ælfgar felt his senses stirring. He felt as though they were being watched, and yet to either side of the road, fields stretched away into the distance, nothing but the green shoots of the year’s crop visible.
“Keep alert. I’m not sure how easy it’ll be to find the ambush site. All I know is that if we reach the Humber, we’ll have missed it according to Frithugar.”
Ælfgar missed the steadying presence of Orkning at his side, but Orkning had escorted his father to Normandy, and instead, Ælfgar rode with his cousins, his small force of six men, and those men his mother had allowed him to borrow.
He sensed that they were all missing the steadying presence of Orkning, in their shifty looks, and occasional arguments over small matters.
As the day cleared, the grey clouds being replaced by a clear sky, Ælfgar swept the cloak from his back. Sweat pooled at the base of his back, where his mail coat reached down to settle against the saddle of his horse. He felt uncomfortable both from the blast of heat that seemed to have warmed the air as though a furnace door had been opened and from the unease that prickled his skin.
Ælfgar sniffed, as though he could scent the stench of spilt blood, and yet the road remained undisturbed beneath them.
Neither was he alone in his unease. Every so often, his horse attempted to bolt beneath him, the action rare for his usually placid and trusting horse. Ælfgar tried to console his horse but was aware that the words sounded feeble, even to his own ears.
And then the cry he’d been both dreading and hoping for rang through the air.
“Over here, Lord Ælfgar.”
It was Æthelheard who beckoned for Ælfgar to follow him.
Some of the men had been following the line of the road from a distance. Æthelheard’s grim face was all Ælfgar needed to see to know that the mass grave had been discovered.
“It’s an unpleasant scene,” Æthelheard stated, the rest of the men streaming after Ælfgar. It was a parody of a royal procession, and Ælfgar felt his rage returning.
Æthelheard hadn’t disturbed the angry earth, but Ælfgar could immediately see where a scar had been torn into the ground, and then re-covered, some feeble attempts made to mask what truly lay
beneath.
“Bring the spades,” Ælfgar called. He didn’t want to dig up the bodies but knew it needed to be done. If nothing else, Earl Eadwulf should be returned to his family, and buried in the family vault. But Ælfgar also hoped to find some sign that the action had been carried out by Earl Siward. It would be impossible to prove the atrocity was committed on Harthacnut’s orders, but Earl Siward could be punished. If proof allowed it.
With the comforting weight of the spade in Ælfgar’s hand, his horse tied up, along with some of the other animals, he took the first chunk of the earth and moved it aside, pleased when Wulfstan and Ælfwine were quick to join him.
“Watch the road,” Ælfgar instructed two of the men. “One of you come back if it looks like we’ve been discovered.” The men rode away, eyes alert, as Ælfgar listened to his fellow diggers at their work.
The site chosen to discard the bodies was not without some merits. It was far enough from the road not to be within easy view, and other than the people who farmed the land, it was unlikely that others would come to the desolate spot. There were no trees to offer the chance of shade for weary travellers, and the hedgerow was sharp and filled with spikes to discourage anyone who might just have been nosy.
Ælfgar felt his nostrils flare. Already the smell of decay was ripe in the air.
He paused once more, returned to his horse, and pulled forth a piece of cloth from within his saddlebags. He tied it around his nose, as his cousins did the same, and then he returned to the small area he was attempting to excavate.
When his spade struck something hard, he grimaced, and then he gagged, turning away to vomit noisily into the ground he’d disturbed with his feet.
A skull. Or rather a head. His spade had unearthed the first of the bodies.
Silence descended over their morbid party, as the soil was shifted more delicately, the pile of moved earth growing all around the pit.
Ælfgar’s find was only the beginning, and by the time the sun was finally in the West, the pit was cleared of as much soil as possible, and all could see the dead before them.
No care had been taken with the bodies. Limbs were flung haphazardly over and under other naked bodies, where worms had already begun their attempt to return the bodies to the soil. The pale flesh of recent death shone against the darkness of the earth, making it easy to see the jagged wounds.
