The Earl's King Read online

  The Earl’s King

  The Earls of Mercia Book 8

  MJ Porter

  Copyright notice

  Porter, M J

  The Earl’s King

  Copyright ©2018, Porter, M.J, Amazon edition

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  Cover design by M J Porter

  Cover image by Photo 64867141 © Fotoatelie - Dreamstime.com

  Dedication

  This book is for all my readers. We’ve been on this journey for a while now, and I appreciate each and everyone of you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for embracing The Earls of Mercia and allowing me to share my story with you.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Anglo-Saxon Chronicle Entry for AD1037

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Anglo-Saxon Chronicle Entry for AD1038

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Anglo-Saxon Chronicle Entry for AD1039

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle Entry for AD1040

  Cast of Characters

  Historical Notes

  Meet the Author

  Chapter One

  AD1037 London Leofric

  Leofric breathed a sigh of relief as his trusty horse nimbly stepped onto the long-spanning wooden bridge that meant London, and Harald was only a few footsteps away.

  His time away from the king, at such a decisive juncture of his foster-son’s kingship, had not been easy. Yes, it had been necessary, but as with so many of life’s obligations, it had been just that, an obligation.

  Now though he allowed himself a moment to relax.

  The Queen Dowager was gone. She’d been a heavy burden, and no doubt would remain one, but for now, she was gone from England. It was that salient fact that mattered and nothing else.

  Leofric had not enjoyed choosing sides when Cnut had died. Or rather, he’d not enjoyed being forced to accept the side of Harald at Cnut’s insistence, but as ever, his honour had demanded he does as his king commanded.

  Not that Harald was aware of that, and neither would he ever be.

  Since leaving the Queen Dowager at Exeter, Leofric had ridden hard for London, knowing only too well that Earl Godwine would be keen to arrive before him. Whatever had happened between him and Lady Emma at their last, abrupt meeting in Shaftesbury, Leofric doubted that what he’d been told and witnessed was the truth.

  As much as he respected Lady Emma, he couldn’t trust Earl Godwine, and that meant he also couldn’t trust Lady Emma when she insisted on speaking with him.

  Yet he’d spoken the truth when saying he’d see her again. He could only hope it wouldn’t be anytime soon. Years could pass quite easily, and he’d not mind if he and Lady Emma just met again as a pair of crotchety old men and women, reminding each other of important events in their past.

  His thoughts, as so often, turned to Harthacnut.

  Harthacnut, just as Harald, didn’t know the truth of Leofric and Cnut’s final conversation, and possibly, he never would either. But even that sat uneasily with Leofric. Leofric didn’t like being manipulated. He liked the fact that his motivations seemed so self-serving even less.

  He sighed heavily.

  Would he never be free from his family’s curse where anything to do with the descendants of the Danish Swein Forkbeard was concerned? His father, him, his son. How many generations would be impacted by events nearly forty years before?

  His horse, as though mindful of his rider’s deep thoughts, stepped sure-footed across the long wooden bridge, the rattle of his hooves over the surface seeming to have no impact on him, for all Leofric grimaced at the sound of the rushing water far below. Falling from such a height would be unpleasant. He’d sooner trust the shifting planks of wood in a ship than the fabled bridge of London that ran from Southwark to the gates of London itself.

  Still, it would get Leofric where he needed to be, and hopefully, Harald would be pleased to see him once he got there.

  Around him, the people of London, more used to the bridge-way on a day-to-day basis than he, went about their busy work. Some enterprising individuals had even set up small stalls along the bridge, selling their wares to all who would stop and listen to their inventive sales techniques.

  Leofric grunted at the show of entrepreneurial ingenuity. No doubt, somewhere along the way, the men and women were managing to avoid paying taxes to someone by setting up shop along the bridge. After all, who could honestly say they owned it? Was it the people of London or the people of Southwark? Indeed, both sides of the bridge were maintained and repaired by the citizens at each of its two ends, but who owned the bridge? He doubted anyone truly knew.

  Leofric allowed a wry smile to turn his face, just for a moment. No one here failed to recognise him, with his beautiful clothes, and well-equipped horse, both festooned with the sigil of his family’s house, the two-headed eagle of the blade gifted to his family by Olaf Tryggvason, and with his golden cross flashing around his neck. It would not do for such an important man to be seen enjoying the sight of the tax-dodgers.

  Yet, London wasn’t Mercian. It wasn’t his to ensure the law was obeyed, and so he skirted the stalls, mindful of the damage his horse could do should he be startled, and looked straight ahead.

  If he hadn’t seen it, he couldn’t be held accountable for it happening. Or so Leofric allowed himself to think.

  Ahead, London was slowly taking form, and he paused, for just a moment, to dare himself to peer over the side of the bridge and take in the full view before him.

  To his own eye, London seemed little changed since the time of Swein’s brief tenure as king, and yet inside the walls that surrounded the thriving centre of trade, London had grown. It was a rich and vibrant place, and Leofric well understood why Harald was keen to win the support of the Londoners by spending so much of his time there.

  Still, Leofric thought, with a sour smile on his face, Winchester was the capital of Wessex, and the nobility of the southern kingdom would expect to see Harald, even if it would have preferred Harthacnut as king. Harald’s failure to allocate enough time to Winchester could prove problematic in the future, especially when Earl Godwine was so much in the ascendant in Wessex.

  Shaking his head at his dispiriting thoughts, Leofric tried to focus on the future.

  England was secure under her young king. While Earl Godwine was still a likely source of future difficulties, Lady Emm
a was at least gone from England’s shores. She could plot all she wanted from her exile. The real threat would only come when her son, Harthacnut, joined her in her political plotting. Leofric didn’t think that would happen anytime soon. Not according to the knowledge gained by his allies with contacts in Denmark and Norway.

  He allowed a brief smile to light his strained face.

  With the potential for so many problems, he felt he should, if only for a little while, enjoy the relative calm within England itself.

  His excellent cheer lasted the length of time it took him to reach Harald’s grand hall within London. A strong hall, it had been well-maintained throughout its years of occupation, although he did notice the repair work on the roof and to the wooden struts close to the door. Fresh, new wood, almost gleamed from where it’d been nestled amongst more staid and longer-standing, weathered posts.

  Leofric shook his head at such a visible reminder of the young king. Hemmed in on all sides by more long-serving politicians, Harald was truly the recently felled wood amongst the more seasoned posts.

  “My Lord,” a voice from behind him and he turned his head. He’d not expected to see Earl Eilifr in London, but it was no great surprise. Eilifr had become close to Harald in recent months, even though he’d not initially been keen to accept Harald as his king.

  “My Lord Eilifr, what brings you to London?” Leofric called jovially, dismounting from his horse at the same time.

  Eilifr grimaced as Leofric waited for an answer, taking the opportunity to hand his reins to one of the waiting squires in the king’s stables.

  “The bloody Welsh,” was the terse reply. Leofric nodded and cursed under his breath. His brother, Eadwine, had been complaining of the Welsh of late. He too shared a border with his Welsh neighbours through his position as Sheriff of Shropshire, and through family landholdings in Worcestershire. Leofric had hoped the intermittent unrest would resolve itself, as so often in the past, but it seemed not on this occasion.

  “What’s happened now?” Leofric asked, removing his riding gloves and striding closer to the slightly older man, who was thumping his clothes to remove the dust from the road.

  “Some age-old complaint about borders, and land rights. Only, instead of petitioning the king, the damn fools are taking what they want by force. I’ve had five reports in as many days of attacks on farmsteads that are definitely English, but which the Welsh are claiming as their own.”

  Leofric considered. The news could have been worse, but he also understood Earl Eilifr’s concern. Not long returned to the favour of King Harald having initially favoured Harthacnut’s cause, he had much to lose, once more, if he failed yet another member of the House of Swein Forkbeard. His family’s history of compliance with the Danish ruling family was littered with ill-thought out actions. Many still thought him a traitor.

  “You’ve come to petition the king for military assistance?” Leofric asked as the wooden doors on the great hall were flung open for their entry by the warden.

  “Yes, and more. If violence doesn’t work, we’ll need a dialogue. Your brother agrees.”

  Leofric absorbed that slight taunt with a wry smile. His brother, Eadwine, was a feisty individual on occasion. He spoke his mind without seeing any need for the use of political expediency. Eadwine did not benefit from the same fierce resolve to do the bidding of the king, even if he disagreed with it, that Leofric shared with their father.

  “Then you must speak with the king. Lay all this before him, and ask for his intervention.”

  The other man grunted, whether in agreement or not, Leofric wasn’t sure.

  “Lady Emma is finally gone?” Earl Eilifr abruptly changed the topic, and it was Leofric’s turn to grunt at being asked about something far from pleasant.

  “Yes, off to Flanders. She took the news of her son’s death poorly.”

  “No doubt she did,” Eilifr offered, almost sounding as though he meant it, and Leofric considered all the man had endured in his life. If Leofric was jaundiced by his interactions with the family of Swein Forkbeard, then Eilifr could more than say the same. It was a hard business this, being an advisor to kings who didn’t necessarily appreciate advice.

  Both of them had suffered for the actions of brothers deemed traitors, and for that reason, Leofric had always tried to think more charitably toward Eilifr than the earl’s behaviour and attitude perhaps deserved.

  “You have news from Denmark?” Leofric probed, not to force the issue, but because he was always keen to know any stray titbits, no matter how uninteresting they might appear.

  “No,” Eilifr snapped abruptly, and Leofric let the man stalk off in front of him. Perhaps it had been an inappropriate question, but then, his nephews were Harthacnut’s cousins. If anyone had news, Leofric would have expected Earl Eilifr to. But maybe he had no contact with Harthacnut, and that was why he’d chosen to reconcile with Harald.

  Leofric noticed then that he’d arrived at the beginning of a feast, for the hall was almost uncomfortably full. At the far end of the room, he could see Harald presiding over the meal, surrounded by his closest supporters, and also, annoyingly, by Earl Godwine, ensconced to his right.

  No doubt the other earl had thrashed his horse to arrive in London before Leofric, and offer his own interpretation on events with Lady Emma in Exeter.

  Leofric swore loudly, his words causing a few to stare at him in shock, and he raised his hand in apology. He’d have much preferred this meeting with his king to take place in a far more private venue and without the prying eyes of the fifty or so men and women joining the king for a celebration feast. Of what, Leofric wasn’t sure, but no doubt he’d find out soon.

  “My Lord Leofric,” at his side an earnest young face appeared, one he didn’t recognise.

  “The king requests that you join him.” As he spoke, Leofric glanced at Harald and saw him watching the exchange.

  “Of course,” he agreed, indicating the young man should lead on, holding his amusement in place. Did Harald really think that he wouldn’t have reported to him immediately anyway?

  As Leofric processed to the front of the hall, he acknowledged those he knew with a nod or a wry smile, giving himself no more time to think about the content of Godwine’s conversation with Harald. He’d find out soon enough.

  The young king stayed seated when Leofric approached him, and immediately he took to his knee and bowed his head. Harald was prickly about his royal status, even now, after his coronation and acceptance as king of all England.

  “Ah, Earl Leofric, you’ve returned at last.” There was no denying the sarcastic tone of the king’s voice, but Leofric held his nerve.

  “My Lord King,” he simply said, his eyes angled downwards, waiting to be told to join the king. Still, he offered an explanation. “It was no easy task. The news that I carried for Lady Emma caused great upset.”

  “So I understand,” Harald remarked, his tone filled with meaning. Damn bloody Earl Godwine, always on hand to make even the simplest of conversations awkward.

  “But come, join me. I’d hear all that happened between you and my father’s wife.”

  Pleased to rise, Leofric was first greeted by the gloating expression of Earl Godwine, sat so close to the king, Leofric was surprised they didn’t share a seat. Behind him, Earl Eilifr was also observing the exchange from a seat further down the table to the king’s left. No doubt, his meeting with the king had gone better than Leofric’s own was about to, and been over far more quickly.

  Leofric took the offered seat to the king’s left, as he unclasped his cloak and allowed it to fall to the side of the wooden chair the king had granted him. The chair was almost too small for him, and yet he managed to squeeze his body into it without too much of a grimace.

  All these little mind games. Leofric could have happily stalked from the room and left Harald to the mercies of Earl Godwine. Only he couldn’t. His family depended on Leofric keeping the peace with the king for their position, no matter what. A
nd there had been many, many occasions when those duties had been almost too much for him. He wasn’t blind enough to think that Harald as king would be any easier on him.

  “Earl Godwine tells me that you allowed the Queen Dowager to trample through most of Wessex in her rush to leave England?”

  The question was as searing as the meat placed before him, and Leofric coached his expression carefully. He’s known the king would call him to account for his decisions regarding Lady Emma. But he had no regrets. He had acted with the honour due to a woman who’d been queen of England not once but twice.

  “She wished to bury her son with the honour due to a member of the Royal House of Wessex at Shrewsbury.”

  “He was no king or prince.” Harald barked angrily, and Leofric nodded, as he investigated his meal in detail, keen to avoid the king’s intense scrutiny.

  “But he was, to others. Bad enough he died within England, at least we could give him an honourable burial.” Leofric chewed slowly on the beef he’d been offered. It would not do to rile the king, but neither would he apologise. King Harald had been as complicit in the death of his father’s wife’s son as Earl Godwine. The pair of them needed to show some remorse for their terrible, and irreversible, actions.

  Leofric didn’t need to glance at Earl Godwine to know that his words would have had an impact. Equally, he knew Harald was just pleased that Lord Alfred was out of the way, succumbing to injuries inflicted by a man keen for a vengeance against King Æthelred that Alfred hadn’t even witnessed. Harald’s Uncle, now thankfully dead as well, had a great deal to answer for if he made his way to Heaven.

  “Be that as it may. It would have been suitable to bury Alfred in Winchester. That, after all, is the home of the House of Wessex. There are two good Minsters there, surely one of them would have been adequate?” The king persisted, and so Leofric did the same, a winsome tone to his voice.