Viking Sword

  Viking Sword

  The Earls of Mercia: Book One

  MJ Porter

  © M J Porter 2017

  M J Porter has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2017.

  This edition published by Endeavour Media Ltd in 2018.

  For my Dad

  You bought me books on castles, told stories of old Mercian kings buried at the top of my garden and stood by as I changed my mind about studying History at GCSE, A Level and even Degree level. This one’s for you!

  Table of Contents

  Prologue – 991

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Prologue – 991

  The terrible sound of battle faded almost to nothingness, as he stood, motionless but moving, his actions preordained by the long years of training. His shield in one hand, his spear in the other and his blade still sheathed. He fought side-by-side with those of his warband he’d deemed fit and able enough to escort him. Ealdorman Brythnoth, his distant relative, had specifically raised the fyrd to tackle the scourge of Olaf’s ravaging ship army.

  Not that any of that mattered now. The strong words of Brythnoth to the raiders spokesman that only that morning had caused all the men to cheer him and espouse their special support for this venture, were as feathers dispersed by the wind, fleeting and quickly forgotten. And yet they reverberated in his head, the voice rich and intense with age, condescension dripping, with a now misplaced confidence.

  "Do you hear, Vikings, what this nation says? They will give you only spears as tribute, the poison-tipped javelin and ancient swords, these weapons will profit you nothing in battle."

  Cries from the men behind him made him turn and stare, while all the time holding his shield in place, overlapping with his great friend and commended man, Wulfstan. Bile filled his throat as he watched some of the weakest of them running from the enemy now that their ealdorman lay dead at the hands of the raiders.

  A thought, a moment, sadness and conviction swirled in his mind. Stay and die as his ealdorman had, or run and flee as the others were. His vision faded, an image of what he would leave behind if he died. His son, grown to a young man now, but vulnerable all the same, as yet untried in the way of the King’s Witan but with so much promise if only he had the right guide. But what if he ran? Could he live with the knowledge that men better than him had lost their lives against this Olaf and his men?

  And then no more time for thought.

  A whistle of sound, a hail of spears above his head and he knew the enemy warriors were turning their attention to the shield wall arrayed against them. He must make his decision.

  A hand on his arm, and a look of disquiet from Wulfstan.

  "My Lord?" he queried, understanding in those few short words.

  "I must," a simple reply, thick with conviction.

  "And so must I."

  "No, you must not."

  An agonized howl of dismay arose from Wulfstan's mouth, while all the time he held his place in the press and sweat of the men. A stalwart to the end.

  "I’m no coward," through gritted teeth.

  "No, and nor am I, but my son will have need of you."

  "Ask another," a terse reply, head forward and down, concentrating on the attack before him, every muscle tuned to the advancing force. "There are others of us who you can trust to slip away, most with far more to live for than I," bitterness and contempt in the words.

  "And yet none carry your wisdom. You've counseled me more than you can ever know. I've turned to you in my moments of indecision, and your steadiness has calmed me, led me where I should go. You can advise him, ensure he leads a better life."

  "My Lord?" ambiguous in the press of bodies. A quirk of a smile as Aelfhere wondered whether Wulfstan was thanking his Lord for his kind words or still querying those words.

  "You must agree, or I will command you."

  A wail of real rage as Wulfstan lowered his shield and thrust aside one of the enemies spear points. The arm of the man who'd raised it against the finest warrior Aelfhere had ever known trailed to the floor in a haze of flying crimson blood. And then he was back in the shield wall beside his lord.

  "I will do as you command,” soft words, barely heard above the screams and cries of the men, the clash of the steel weapons on wood.

  "Then go now, with my thanks and speak to my son the words you once spoke to me."

  "Any personal words for your son?"

  "Too many to voice now. Relay our words spoken over mead and meat. Spare him nothing and let him know that I was proud of him."

  "But not too proud to return to him?" Wulfstan asked bitterly, his arm reverberating with the force of the attackers against his shield.

  "If death must come, it needs to be worthy, and this is proper, dying for my Lord."

  "And yet you deny it to me?"

  "No, I save it for you for another day when you can serve my son and die well for him.”

  Temporarily he could see nothing, his eyes blinded by the defeat he saw coming and the knowledge that he would not see his son again.

  "Go, now!" he cried, his voice finding strength while his body felt weak.

  "As you command," a terse reply, and then a gaping hole in the shield wall where Wulfstan had once stood. The gap was quickly filled by another determined warrior, a smile of pleasure on his face for the death he knew was coming.

  And then full engagement. The enemy, numbers matched so evenly, forcing their way against them all. Sweat sheened his face and resolve tightened his hold on his weapons. He would slay as many of these men as he could, in retribution for what they'd done to his Lord and what they planned to do to his king’s people and wealth.

  A rippling crescendo of thick laughter and Aelfhere found himself facing a heavily built man with laughter lines evident even beneath his helmet and the blood that covered him. Around him, Aelfhere felt the shield wall begin to break up and he stepped forward to face the warrior who led the band of upstart raiders. His spear long since discarded, he grasped his sword and shield and turned to face Olaf Tryggvason. A smile graced his face, his grief forgotten for now. He would have a good death, or he would slay the murdering raider.

  Chapter 1

  991 – Near Deerhurst

  Sweat beaded his face, and he distractedly wiped it away with the back of his gloved hand. The movement was ineffectual, serving more to smear dust from the summer crops across his face, than clear it.

  He bit back his frustration and forced himself to concentrate above the discomfort of the late summer sun. He had to practice. His father hadn’t let him go with him, when the fyrd had been called upon, because he’d deemed his skills a little rusty from his time away, in attendance upon the king. He couldn’t deny his father’s logic, but it grated on his already slightly wounded self-image. His time with the king had been enjoyable but Æthelred had not shared his desire to train and be physically fit. When his father returned, he was adamant that he'd have improved enough to join the fyrd when the king next commanded his ealdormen to raise it.

  Tempering his emotions, he eyed his opponent with interest from above his shield. Oscetel was younger than him by at least five years, and he lacked his wider frame and bulging muscles, but still, he was an interesting opponent and Leofwine was not convinced he'd beat the lanky, blue-eyed youth
easily.

  A sharp stabbing action from his short sword, and he hovered behind his shield again as Oscetel eyed him with an equal amount of interest. They were old friends, but that worked to make them bitter rivals when the other men of the household troop, those few of them who'd been left behind on guard duty, were watching and making bets on who'd win.

  A thunk on his shield and he knew that Oscetel was trying to tempt him to make a rash move. Firmly, he stayed focused on the tactics he’d decided to employ. If it meant standing in the noonday sun until Oscetel tired and made a foolish move, then he’d do so.

  One of his father's favourite lessons was that it wasn't always necessary to attack to win. An enraged enemy would tire quickly and make ill-conceived moves. A man with a calm mind, able to think clearly, was more likely to be the victor unless he was very unlucky.

  The yard they trained in sat before his father's well-kept house. Those of the servants who were not watching the duel unfold were busy about the business of harvesting, and the occasional honk of one of the ducks reminded Leofwine that there was any number of hazards that could fell his careful plan. A duck underfoot or one of the small children of the servants or household troop could at any moment undo his efforts.

  With the stream of the sweat in his eyes and the taste of it in his parched mouth, he decided that he needed to act. Be a little rash, a little unexpected. That was another of his father's favourite lessons. It was always good to unnerve your enemy by acting out of character.

  Without another sound, he dropped his heavy shield to the ground where it thudded loudly, its wooden rims echoing from the blow. While Oscetel dropped his guard to see what had happened, Leofwine stepped forward, and effectively stabbed him through the chest. Or rather he could have done. Instead, he made his intentions clear, and a groan of dismay erupted from Oscetel’s mouth. Those who'd been watching cheered a little and clapped their hands before wondering away.

  "Sorry my friend," Leofwine said, as he bent to pick up his discarded shield, inspecting it as he spoke.

  "It was a good move, and certainly one I wasn’t expecting so no need to apologize. I’ll watch for that in the future." Oscetel’s tone was rueful but not begrudging. They could often be found discussing tactics and the more they considered, the better, they hoped, it made them as warriors.

  "It was a mean trick but Oscetel, I was too damn hot."

  His friend smacked him on his sweaty back and laughed at his honesty.

  "No injury was done, and I think you have the right to it. I'm parched."

  Tiredly, the heat making them drag their feet, they walked inside his father's home. It was pleasantly cool inside the wooden interior, and one of the equally hot servants rushed to bring them both a drink and to refill their cups when they drained them immediately.

  Leofwine sank onto the bench closest to the door and tugged on his gloves so that he could remove them before taking off his heavily padded byrnie. Besides him, Oscetel did the same and then the two boys lay down on the narrow wooden bench so that their heads were almost touching. Leofwine felt his eyes closing in the heat and he fought to stay awake.

  "It’s hot today," Leofwine muttered.

  "Too right. Far too hot to be training."

  "I know, but my father said…,"

  "We are all aware what he said Leofwine, and he was wrong. Your time away hasn't dampened your skills. In fact, if anything, they've improved by leaps and bounds."

  Leofwine could feel his already hot face glowing a little brighter with the unlooked for praise. Before he could deny or accept the words, Oscetel carried on speaking.

  "Did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, your father just didn’t want you in battle with him?"

  Leofwine sat abruptly, his hands to either side of him on the smooth, cool bench.

  "What do you mean?"

  Oscetel sat upright too and gazed at Leofwine, his young face earnest, "Well, you know. It’s not always the best idea to go into battle and take your one and only heir with you. Who’d have this place if the worst happened?" Oscetel gestured to the lofty house they sat within as he spoke. Leofwine considered his friend’s words.

  "Here, I’d not thought of that."

  "Then maybe you're not quite as bright as you think you are," his friend countered, rising to his feet and stretching his arms above his head.

  "I can’t cool down. I’m going for a quick dip in the river. You coming?" he asked as a parting shot.

  "I'm just going to get another drink, and I'll meet you there," Leofwine responded slowly.

  Why had he never considered his friend’s words as the truth of his father’s motive? Perhaps he’d been a little too self-involved, a little too desperate to prove himself worthy of his father. Standing, he absentmindedly slugged another drink.

  Perhaps it would have been nice if his father had explained it to him. He’d ask him when he got back. Resolved, he walked towards the open doorway, only to stop abruptly.

  In the doorway stood a figure he’d not been expecting to see. Wulfstan. Excitedly he looked behind him, back into the main room, wondering how he could have missed seeing or hearing his father. Only then did the expression on Wulfstan’s face register. The seriousness he was used to seeing on his father’s closest confidant; the grief he was not. He felt his knees buckle beneath him, and he stepped sideways to grab for the bench he’d only just stood up from.

  Wulfstan stepped forward and offered him an arm of support, as he sat just in time to prevent himself falling over. By all that was holy, not his father!

  Once he was seated, Wulfstan bowed respectfully to him. When Leofwine failed to speak, desperately trying to avoid saying the final words, Wulfstan nodded his head again and roughly began to speak his words of commendation to his new Lord.

  "By the Lord, and these holy relics, I pledge to be loyal and true to Leofwine, and love all that he loves, and hate all that he hates, in accordance with God’s rights and my noble obligations; and never, willingly and intentionally, in word or deed, do anything that is hateful to him; on condition that he keep me as was our agreement, when I subjected myself to him and chose his service."

  Belatedly, Leofwine noted the holy relic in Wulfstan’s hand, and looking from his father’s man to that relic the terrible truth finally penetrated his consciousness. His father was dead at the hands of the raiders, and he’d never be able to ask him anything again.

  Chapter 2

  Somewhere near Shetland – 995

  The sky stretched grey as far as the eye could see. It didn’t threaten rain, merely signifying that the sun would not shine that day. No chance. Where the overcast sky ended, the flat sea began, both merging into an unbroken expanse that stretched across the horizon. Only when Leofwine turned to face his fellow shipmates was there even a flash of colour to contrast with the seemingly eternal iron view; the red of smiling lips, a flash of colourful clothing and the blond of shining heads bowed low to their work. With the dull day there was no wind to power the mighty russet beast beneath them. It plunged through the quiet sea to the call of the sixty oars dipping in and out of the never-ending sweep. Perched as the men were on their war chests of varying hues of winter brown and autumn yellow, they strained with each stroke of the mighty oars they commanded. Only he was exempt from the heavy labour; he and Olaf and mighty Bjorn, the foul-tempered, and burly helmsman, who occasionally cast him barely veiled looks of contempt for his inaction.

  The quiet of the day didn’t yet herald a storm. It would come, but in a few days more, when winter finally struck its first note and by then they’d have reached their destination and be wrapped up snug and warm against the coming hostile weather. Or so Bjorn had promised him.

  A shout at the front of the ship caught Leofwine's attention. Olaf Tryggvason. He was in remarkably good spirits, and his good cheer was catching, infecting all the men as they strained and relaxed their hold on the oars that extended far out to either side of Olaf's great longship. Leofwine found he was smilin
g along with the man as he yet again ran his hands through his own war chest, heaped high with dulled coins and shining treasures. The money held a fascination that Leofwine could understand without any bitterness. Yes, his own money had contributed to the huge geld of sixteen thousand pounds, and he should probably feel some remorse that it was no longer in his possession, or even his king's; but he could laugh along with Olaf. There was plenty more where that came from! Not that Olaf knew that. If he did then, the scoundrel would only turn his tail and head back to England like he'd done last time.

  If nothing else his own newly given importance was to convince Olaf of England's poverty in the wake of his recent attacks and to ensure that he made it safely back to Norway. Once there he could do as he pleased, provided it involved him staying there, for a long time. The fabulous riches he now possessed far outweighed anything he’d ever acquired in his long and varied travels. The weight of gold, nearly double that paid only three years before, was the most that Olaf was ever likely to acquire; provided he was now convinced of England's poverty and future attacks from him were averted.

  Olaf never seemed to tire of running his hands through his new wealth. Even on the heavy day, the treasure contained within flashed a burnished gold and shimmered across his face, on a sunny day Leofwine didn’t doubt that opening the lid would be blinding.

  Olaf was a well-built man, his age a little difficult to tell, but Leofwine was sure he couldn’t be far short of forty. His blond hair was beginning to grow thin upon the crown of his head, and his beard was flecked here and there with silver threads. His eyes were dark cobalt flanked by creases and wrinkles that intensified whenever he laughed, which he often did.

  As Leofwine continued to watch him, his deep blue eyes opened wide in shock, and from deep within his war chest he pulled forth an enormous gold cross, decorated with four blood rubies that seemed to pulse even on such a leaden and overcast day. Leofwine schooled his expression; this was a treasure he knew and valued above all the others and the one thing he did truly resent being in the grabbing hands of Olaf. Olaf had no comprehension of its personal meaning to Leofwine, and he must do his best to keep it that way. He had a role to play, and it didn’t involve petty hatred over what should be viewed as just another object in the vast hoard, albeit a precious one for Leofwine.