Viking King

by M J Porter

  “My Lady Mother, as much as I don’t approve of much that she does, has taken the decision to have a history of our father’s reign written. It will ensure all is remembered as it should be, and it will, obviously, celebrate her life’s accomplishments.” Harthacnut had laughed harshly at those words. It seemed he thought his mother had done little in her long life. Leofric had felt pity for Lady Emma. It had seemed that her son was happy to die without ever reconciling with her.

  “My Lady Mother is to be admired for attempting to rewrite the course of history, but of course, others will always know the truth.”

  Leofric had tried to think of the right response to such a statement. It was a ludicrous proposition, and yet he couldn’t help but admire Lady Emma’s resolve to have her life remembered in the way that she wanted it to be.

  “There will be those from elsewhere who think to take Lord Edward’s kingdom from him, my cousin will be involved in that, don’t forget that Svein Estridsson has huge ambitions, but the true danger is from inside England.”

  Harthacnut had lapsed into silence before he’d spoken once more, his long fingers toying with the glass goblet that lay filled with wine that he’d not yet sampled.

  “England is not at all the kingdom I thought it would be to rule. It’s not Denmark, not at all. I hardly know why my grandfather and father desired it so much. They would have accomplished far more if they’d only stayed in Denmark, and concentrated on a northern empire that didn’t include England.”

  Leofric had often thought the same but hadn’t interrupted his king’s musings.

  “I’ll take an oath from you, that you’ll do all you can to counter the House of Godwine. I didn’t joke when I said the man was ambitious enough to think he should wear England’s crown. I’ll not have it. You,” and Harthacnut had pointed his finger at Leofric as he’d spoken, “will not allow it. No matter what it takes.”

  “My Lord King, surely this is a conversation you should be having with your brother.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s one for your ears, and yours alone, although I’ll also take your oath to include your son as well.”

  “Long ago, my father executed your brother, the damn fool. If he’d let your brother live, understood the true menace of Ealdorman Eadric, then his kingship would have been different, and so would mine. King Æthelred might have countered my grandfather’s attack on England, and then my father would never have thought England should be his. I would have been content with just Denmark.” Leofric had been amazed by the admission. Harthacnut had fixed him with his hard eyes, as though daring him to argue the point.

  “My father was far from a perfect man. He was rash and obsessed with having his empire, no matter the cost to his family.” Bitterness had laced Harthacnut’s words and Leofric had considered just what sort of a father Cnut had truly been. An absent one, and one always too eager to use his children in his political ambitions.

  “Had my father been a better man, then Lord Edward wouldn’t have been a stranger to me all these years. It seems I’ve been unlucky in having many brothers and knowing none of them well. Not one of them. Jealously ripped my father’s family apart. You must not let the same happen to Lord Edward.”

  Harthacnut had spoken with urgency, his voice fluctuating from rage to understanding. Leofric had considered that he’d underestimated Harthacnut and judged him too harshly.

  “I threatened you when I became king of England, and I threaten you once more. Keep England out of the hands of Earl Godwine and his despicable horde of sons and daughters. He’s but the son of a ship’s commander. He has no claim. Not like Lord Edward. I’ll be England’s last true Viking King. You’ll ensure that I am at least remembered for that.”

  Harthacnut’s face had quickly returned to its normally inscrutable expression, as though his anger had been a passing stage, immediately forgotten about.

  “I’ll have your oath, and we’ll never speak of this again. Not once. The future of the House of Gorm is in your hands, and you’ll protect it.”

  Leofric had startled as Harthacnut had once more mentioned the Danish royal family, not the English one. Despite laughing at Lady Emma’s rewriting of history, Harthacnut was guilty of the same thing.

  “Then I’ll pledge my oath, and that of my son, to ensuring that Lord Edward is king after you. But remember, My Lord King, my father was often forced to use innovative ways to keep his word, and I’ll be forced to do the same. Whatever you think me capable of doing, I can assure you, that nothing will be as you envisage.”

  “I’ll not be here to see it, Lord Leofric. It’s you who must learn to live with your decisions. Not me. You must do what must be done, and however, it must be done.”

  A further sigh had burst from Leofric’s chest.

  “Life is never easy with the House of Gorm,” Leofric had complained, trying to dredge a smile from deep inside him.

  “It’s a responsibility that I leave with you. It’s always a responsibility to rule and govern. We’re not made kings because it’s an enjoyable task.”

  The half-smile had dropped from Leofric’s face as he’d scrutinised Harthacnut once more.

  It was not just his illness that had worn away at Harthacnut’s physical body, it seemed that being king of the English was not the easy task he’d thought it would be. Was ruling Denmark truly so much easier? Leofric hadn’t wanted to ask.

  ‘And before you leave me, I would thank you.”

  “Thank me?”

  “For being honourable with my half-brother’s body. I was remiss when I ordered his body disinterred. Tell me, how did my brother truly die?”

  So many emotions had rushed through Leofric at the same time that he’d hardly known what to say.

  “Your brother was killed by a woman he tried to force himself on. His neck was all but severed, and he bled to death in his own hall. Lord Godwine was with him, but he was insensible from too much wine.”

  “And you believe that?” If Harthacnut had been surprised by Leofric’s honesty, it hadn’t show, and he’d been quick to voice the question.

  The question had surprised Leofric. He’d expected Harthacnut to smirk at his despised brother’s misfortune, not to caution against Lord Godwine’s explanations.

  “I can only believe what I was told,” Leofric had confirmed, refusing to be drawn on Harthacnut’s accusations, for all it had made him reconsider Lord Godwine’s demeanour that night.

  “Of course you can,” the king had agreed, but there was something in his voice that Leofric hadn’t trusted. And the king’s parting words had been even less reassuring.

  “It was bloody convenient, Harald’s death.” And with that, the king had dismissed Leofric. He’d stumbled from the meeting, with far too much to consider.

  Had the truth of Harald’s death revealed something to Harthacnut that he’d long suspected, or had it made him realise that Lord Godwine wasn’t quite the enemy he’d become. Leofric had worried, immediately, that he should have been much less honest.

  Had he, in admitting the truth, restored Lord Godwine to the king’s good wishes? He’d hoped not, and quickly tried to banish the thought.

  Harthacnut had been immediately suspicious, and far from pleased at the admission.

  Now, as Leofric moved through the press of people, he kept replaying that conversation, looking for a way that he couldn’t fulfil his king’s oath. Yet, Leofric could admit, the king had only asked him to do what he wanted to do anyway.

  The House of Godwine needed to enjoy no closer relationship to the king than already existed. But, if Harthacnut should die, what other choice might the exile have?

  Harthacnut had come with a ship-army, in his guise as a Viking King, and still failed to hold the support of the English. His reign had been far from successful.

  But it was those final words that worried Leofric the most.

  He’d tried to dismiss his suspicions about Lord Godwine, work with the earl to ensure that Harthacnut became king after hi
s brother, but just how far did Lord Godwine’s ambitions extend? It was not the first time Leofric had been forced to reconsider the events of that night, and no doubt it wouldn’t be the last.

  Abruptly, Leofric was disturbed from his thoughts, as a ripple of silence spread through the crowd. Leofric searched for his wife, keen to have her support as the king presided over the wedding that would unite two of his allies, Osgot Clapa and Tovi the Proud.

  “My Lord Husband,” it was Lady Godgifu who found him first, a tight smile on her lips. “Where have you been,” she asked, turning so that she could whisper the words in his ear.

  “Thinking,” Leofric replied, and where before the events of Coventry last year this might have elicited an annoyed grunt, Lady Godgifu let the matter slide without debate.

  “Well, the king is here, to mingle with the Danes he trusts and the English, he doesn’t.”

  A wry smile quirked on Leofric’s lips.

  “You’re most perceptive,” he agreed, holding out his arm so that she could slip her hand into the space. They would always present a united front, no matter what others thought.

  “And just where that leaves Earl Godwine and his family, I’ve no idea.” Leofric grinned this time, his skin unused to the action. Her thoughts so closely mirrored his own. It had often been the way.

  “Well Lord Godwine is English, his wife, Danish. His children should just be the right sort of mix for Harthacnut to trust.”

  “Ah, but he doesn’t. Not at all.”

  Again, Lady Godgifu, for all she spent so little time at court, mingling with the king and the nobility, had seen the truth of the situation.

  “I see Lady Emma is here.” This surprised Leofric, and he glanced up from examining his shoes, to see the king’s mother.

  Lady Emma wore all of her fineries, and stood with a select group of people, Lord Edward notable by his absence, although Lord Ralph was included.

  “It’s not like the king to allow her to his celebrations unless they take place in the king’s hall in Winchester and he can direct her as he wants to.”

  “Perhaps the king and his mother are finally reconciled.”

  “Maybe. The king was only telling me of Lady Emma’s great literary project earlier.”

  “When earlier?”

  Lady Godgifu’s tone was sharp, her fingers gripping his wrist too tightly to be comfortable.

  “When the king summoned me to him before the marriage took place. Sorry, I thought I’d mentioned it.”

  “Well, that explains why you’re so distracted,” Lady Godgifu complained. “It would be better for you to pay more attention this evening. Not only has Lady Emma been let off her reins, but so too has the whole court. There’s no one missing who wouldn’t normally be seen at the king’s witan. Even Earl Siward and his wife and son attends.”

  “The king is keen to honour his allies, and Osgot Clapa is one of his favoured English allies on account of his very Danishness.”

  “As always,” Lady Godgifu offered dourly. Sometimes it was impossible to tell whether the king preferred men and women of Danish blood or not. Those with a mixed heritage often earned his ire, but equally so did being English or Danish. The king, it seemed, was unable to decide who he really trusted, relying only the select band of men and women who served under his cousin and Lord Otto.

  And then the king was striding into an improvised space between two lines of his subjects. Leofric bowed smartly, Lady Godgifu curtseying, as the king passed without saying a word.

  “He looks unwell,” Lady Godgifu whispered, as the king took a seat close to the table set up just for him inside Osgot Clapa’s grand hall in London, a rich cloak around his shoulders, for all it was a warm night.

  “He often looks unwell,” Leofric replied, not wishing to say more. There were always people keen to overhear the words of the great earls and report them to any who would pay for the secrets. Who knew the servants true masters?

  “Of course,” Lady Godgifu quickly dropped her questions, reminded to watch what she said.

  “Welcome,” the king was expansive before them all. While he might look ill, his face as white as when Leofric had spoken to him earlier, his clothes were festooned with enough gold and silver to distract from his own lack. Leofric admired Harthacnut for his ability to dress the part of a warrior king, even while he might no longer possess the same skills.

  Around both of his wrists, golden arm bands glittered, three silver ones on his right arm, while one rested above the golden ones on his left. His fingers flashed with gems, and around his neck, he wore a golden chain thicker than any Leofric had ever seen.

  Really, Leofric considered, it was no surprise that the Mercians had resented being forced to live in poverty when the king was so rich himself.

  It would have behoved Harthacnut to pay the outstanding costs of his invasion fleet from the coffers of Denmark, rather than England. It would undoubtedly have made his first years as king more amenable to his subjects, and lifted the burden from Leofric and the people of Coventry and Worcester.

  “I would raise a toast, to the future happiness of the bride and groom.” As Harthacnut spoke, he raised his golden goblet above his head, and every one mirrored the action, a roar of acclaim greeting the action.

  Only now did Leofric focus on the bride and groom. The bride was a young woman, her face youthful, and her skin free from all blemishes, while the man was substantially older. Yet both were smiling, whether overawed by the king’s presence at their wedding or in genuine happiness, Leofric was unsure.

  Certainly, he would have wished his daughter, had the girl been his, to marry someone closer in age. In no time at all, Leofric thought, the girl would find herself a widow and then what would her father do to her next? Perhaps she smiled because she would be a wealthy widow and able to win free from her father’s influence. It had happened before, both Lady Elfrida and Lady Emma managing to remain as widows.

  “Come, we must find our seats,” Lady Godgifu led Leofric to the front of the hall, glittering with candlelight and bright with flowers and greenery, when the toast had finished. The air was redolent with the smell of summer, and Leofric found himself relaxing under the influence of the splendid surroundings, excellent food, and the fact that he was not talking politics, for once.

  In fact, the three earls had all been separated from one another, and the king sat only beside the bride, her new husband, Tovi and Osgot Clapa, the bride’s father. It was a strangely intimate scene, and even the king seemed to have relaxed. Leofric thought hard but decided he’d never seen the king so free of the constraints he placed between himself and his English subjects. Perhaps, if Harthacnut had been declared king straight after his father’s death, scenes such as these would have been more commonplace.

  “Lady Emma is with the bishops,” Lady Godgifu spoke below the rush of busy servants, ensuring all had food, wine and ale, as they needed.

  “And Lord Edward?” While Leofric seemed concerned only with his food and wine, Lady Godgifu scouted the hall for the other prominent players.

  “Lord Edward and Ralph are together. Ah, Ælfgar is with them.”

  Leofric hid his smile of delight behind his goblet, as he sipped the tart wine with appreciation. He’d already been served a sweeter wine and looked forward to sampling the roast boar placed before him.

  “Lord Edward does seem to like our son.”

  “He does yes, but he’s not alone. Sweyn Godwinesson is there as well.” The news dampened Leofric’s delight at his son’s political machinations, but only a little.

  “Lord Edward needs to make allies. It’s good that he thinks to do so with the younger generation who’ll serve him when he’s king.”

  Lady Godgifu gasped at Leofric’s words, forgetting their determination to never show anyone their true feelings in public.

  “But Lord Edward is older than the king. How can you say as such?”

  “Because the king is ailing. You said it yourself.”

&
nbsp; “But surely not yet? He’s barely more than a child. Lady Emma will be devastated if her son dies and they’re barely reconciled.”

  “Lady Emma is writing her own history. I’m sure she’ll soon learn to believe the words the monks write for her.”

  “Tsk,” the outrage in Lady Godgifu’s voice made Leofric turn and gaze at her.

  “Really, you’d have sympathy for a woman you’ve always hated?”

  “I would have sympathy for a mother,” Lady Godgifu commented, suddenly busying herself with her food. Leofric held back from further comment. It was surely time that Godgifu came to understand the problematic life Lady Emma had lived. Not for her the safety of a husband, son and large extended family to tolerate her acerbic tongue and hasty temper.

  “I think she’ll need it, and sooner than we might like.” Leofric sounded doleful as he spoke.

  “Ælfgar and Elgiva are laughing with Lord Edward,” Lady Godgifu was an expert at changing the subject. “Sweyn Godwinesson looks none too happy, but Lord Ralph is enjoying the conversation.”

  “Ælfgar has done well to make Lord Ralph an ally. It helps that they have lands that border one another, or rather, that Ralph maintains his mother’s lands for her, while he remains in England.”

  “Do you think Lord Ralph will go home?”

  “No, I think there’s nothing for him in the Vexin, and his mother’s new husband is not yet lord of his own lands. Ralph will remain in England, close to Lord Edward. He’s an astute young man. I see much of Edmund Ironside in him.”

  “Then, let us hope he’s as wise and loyal as Edmund was.”

  A comfortable silence fell between them, and while Leofric ate, and drank, he was attentive to his wife, calling for her wine to be refilled, and fresh meat to be brought for her. There would be many eyes on them, and Leofric was always keen to show the harmony of his long-enduring marriage. It was something that he and Earl Godwine had in common, although not Earl Siward. Earl Siward’s first wife had died many years ago, and it had taken him many more years to remarry.