Viking King Read online

  He was not alone in gasping in horror, and even Bishop Lyfing’s steady litany faltered, as they all saw the damage in hideous detail.

  When the head had popped clear from the Thames, it had been bad enough. Now there was no hiding from what had been done to the body. Be it as a natural consequence of death, or since it had been upended from the ceremonial coffin, and into a bog, before being tossed into the Thames.

  Little but the clothes Harald had been buried in held the body together. Little but bones remained, and the odd patches of blackened skin that had been left behind by the inhabitants of the Thames. As Leofric moved to adjust the fabric on Harald’s shoulder, a crab crawled from the depths of the sewed shut neck wound, and Leofric dashed to the side of the jetty, yet more vomit pouring from his mouth.

  Tears flooded his eyes while his belly growled angrily at finding itself empty.

  Good God, he could not do this! His chest heaving, Leofric fought for composure, the sound of his heartbeat too loud in his ears, his breath harsh and gasping.

  Good God. This was too much.

  Had there ever been such animosity between two brothers?

  Leofric was sure there hadn’t been, and yet knew that had he asked Bishop Lyfing, he would no doubt have quoted many stories from the bible.

  Leofric tried to stand, to return to the task at hand but knew he couldn’t.

  Turning, he sought out Ælfgar, his head bowing when he saw his son completing the task he’d set for himself. Leofric nodded, tears once more flowing freely, his shoulders shaking. His son was such an honourable young man. While Leofric grieved afresh for his foster-son, Ælfgar was forced to remove the detritus of the river from the body of his foster-brother.

  Yes, in the end, all of them may have been more enemies than allies, but that didn’t undo the years of childish playing and friendship, or the sharp words of Harald’s adolescence. Leofric had still thought of him as a son and treated him in the same way he would have Ælfgar, Wulfstan and Ælfwine.

  One of the ship-men, his eyes full of understanding, stood beside Leofric.

  “A fucking mess,” he stated coolly, offering both a hand to Leofric and also a goblet filled with fluid.

  Leofric stood and drank, the harshness of the liquor hitting the back of his throat and making him cough.

  The shipman laughed, understanding in his eyes, and no malice.

  “Put’s hairs on your chest, and makes the world a little less clear, all at the same time.”

  Leofric hiccupped, almost laughing, before the warmth of the drink exploded in his chest.

  “Bastard,” the shipmen stated, his eyes on the corpse, although he didn’t name Harald as a bastard.

  Ælfgar had moved to remove the crabs and small eels, nestled in the remains of Harald’s stomach. As he did so, the fishing net had also been unwound, while Leofric’s sealskin cloak, lay discarded on the floor to one side.

  The words of Bishop Lyfing had resumed after his stumbling pause, although his eyes were closed, as though he couldn’t actually bear to see what was happening. Indeed, Ælfgar worked almost entirely alone, and no matter what Leofric tried to bribe himself with, he couldn’t resume the task he’d set himself.

  “Aye, the water is quick to take the bodies,” the shipman continued. “Quicker than the earth itself. But it’s right that King Harald has a death on land. He was never a great sailor. For all his father felt just as much at home riding the waves as he did his wives.” The shipman laughed, and Leofric wished he could join in, but Cnut had been a bastard, in the end, to both of his wives, no matter how often he’d ridden them.

  The shipman seemed not to notice Leofric’s lack of enjoyment in his joke. His eyes were fixed on Ælfgar before them all. No doubt, Leofric decided, the man was used to such as this. Perhaps he’d pulled bodies from the sea before.

  “Are we to wrap the body?” Ælfgar asked the question, standing to look at his father. Leofric noticed how his son held his hands before him, not content to wash them on his cloak. Leofric was unsurprised.

  “Yes, bring the cloak we have, and then we’ll place the body in the coffin. Will there be time for the service?”

  This Leofric directed at Bishop Lyfing, who, forced to open his eyes, gulped on seeing the blackened flesh before him.

  “Of course, My Lord. The church is ready.”

  Leofric nodded, a fretful glance going to the distant horizon. Time seemed to be moving strangely that night. He was sure it should have been daylight by now, and yet darkness persisted, and he was grateful for that.

  While Leofric had no problem with being caught in this act of defiance against his king, he didn’t want the others to suffer. As an earl, Leofric knew the king would treat him harshly, but within reason. These sailors and ship-men wouldn’t have their name to protect them, and neither would Bishop Lyfing.

  When the cloak was handed to Ælfgar, the dark shade appearing black in the night, Leofric conquered his revulsion and moved to help him.

  Ælfgar had not managed to cover the severed-sealed wound at Harald’s neck, but no one had commented on it. Perhaps the secret of Harald’s death was more widely known than Leofric thought possible.

  Together, they turned the body to one side, the grate of bone on bone felt beneath their hands, and then the other. The cloak was fastened around the shoulders, although little of the tunic remained beneath it.

  Then, mindful that somewhere, one of Harald’s feet had been lost, they reverentially lifted the now light corpse into the waiting coffin. Once at the church, the wooden coffin would be lowered into a stone coffin beneath the ground. A heavy lid would then be placed over Harald’s sightless eyes, and only then would Leofric be able to rest easy.

  King Harald had not deserved his death, and certainly, his body had not earned its travels after burial.

  Before the wooden lid was closed over Harald, Leofric reached into his pocket and pulled forth a ring. It was not Harald’s royal seal, but it was all Leofric had to accord the body any royal status.

  Without thinking of what he did, Leofric placed the ring onto the fleshy remains of Harald’s finger, and only then stepped aside so that Bishop Lyfing could bless the body.

  Leofric stepped back, grateful to find a bucket of warm water waiting for him and Ælfgar to dip their contaminated hands into. The water restored some feeling to Leofric’s cold hands. Only then did he realise how much the excursion had chilled his very soul, despite the liquor given him by the sailor.

  By some unspoken command, six ship-men bent and hoisted the coffin onto their shoulders. Those who’d returned to the hall, streamed from it, to lower their heads as the coffin wound its way along the stone-lined walkways, on its way to the church not far from the waterfront.

  Leofric followed in its stead, Ælfgar at his side, Bishop Lyfing in front, his voice rising and lowering with the words he spoke before them all.

  Leofric had not appreciated how many ship-men had taken part in the search for the king’s body. He was even more surprised when he stepped into the church and discovered people waiting for them.

  How, Leofric didn’t know, but his wife and his daughter-by-marriage had found their way to the church. They watched with sorrowful expressions as the coffin was brought before the high altar, and then lowered into the ground. All the while, Bishop Lyfing continued his litany of prayers, not the usual words of a burial, but something he’d deemed suitable for the interment of the anointed King of England’s abused body.

  Leofric stepped beside his wife, aware he stank of the river, and that his cloak had been left on the jetty. He’d thought to organise new clothes for Harald’s body, but not for himself.

  “Praise, the Lord,” his wife’s words were laden with grief. While Godgifu and Ælfgifu, Harald’s mother, had enjoyed only a strained relationship in recent years, it didn’t detract from the heinousness of King Harthacnut’s actions towards his brother. Leofric felt strangely reassured by Lady Godgifu’s presence and knew better than to
ask how she’d even known.

  He’d thought to exclude her, as Ælfgar had his wife, but Elgiva had been an ally of Harald’s discarded wife. Both women might well have come to detest Harald, but neither would have wished him dead or for this to happen to his body, after that untimely death.

  Indeed, the church was full almost to bursting point. The Danish community of London might not have loved King Harald. Still, they had loved his father, and no matter the difficulties of honouring the hated brother of the current king, they’d resolved to do so all the same.

  Leofric was reminded of that day, long years ago, when the body of King Swein had been secreted out of London following his premature death.

  No matter what else he might think about the Danes and their love of fighting, he was warmed by their ability to act honourably in the wake of such terrible humiliations, even knowing they might face dire repercussions should the king find out.

  Only then did Leofric notice that Bishop Lyfing was not alone.

  Bishop Ælfweard of London, attired in all of his ceremonial robes, accompanied Bishop Lyfing, and another man, no doubt the usual church priest. Leofric caught Ælfweard’s eye.

  They exchanged a look of shared concern, as Lyfing continued the ceremony, his words seeming to reach all corners of the church. It was richly endowed, gold and silver seeming to glisten from every window and table. Leofric wondered how much of this wealth had been purchased, and how much stolen on raids to other countries. Still, he held his tongue against any recrimination.

  It was not his place to question the Holy Church, and he had no intention of doing so.

  Eventually, silence thrummed through the great church, the thud of the stone lid being laid over the interred coffin, assuring everyone that all was as it should be.

  When the men responsible for sealing the coffin, ascended from beneath the church, before turning to lay the stone flagstone back in place, it was as though everyone breathed a sigh of relief at an unpleasant task accomplished.

  Leofric hoped he’d not be asked to say anything, and was pleased when people simply bowed, and began to stream their way from the church.

  At his side, Lady Godgifu stood from her kneeling position, clutching something in her hand. Leofric stepped aside, to allow her to lie whatever it was on the place of Harald’s reburial.

  He paused, waiting for her, as Lady Godgifu bowed her head, and then gently bent to place a sprig of flowers onto the cold floor. She paused, laid her hand on the stone, as though in a final farewell, and then stood, her eyes seeking out her husband’s, before she strode to his side, collecting him with her hand hooking through his arm. Her face was rigid, and her fury etched into her every step.

  “Let’s see what the bastard does next,” Lady Godgifu announced, and Leofric knew that she spoke of the king.

  King Harald might well be reburied, but this would not be the end of the problems with King Harthacnut.

  Far from it.

  Chapter 7

  AD1040

  Ælfgar

  With a heavy heart, Ælfgar accepted his father’s instructions to return to his property in Oxford with Elgiva as a means of ensuring he was out of the king’s mind. His father had been forceful.

  “Harthacnut will have known you were there, he misses nothing. If word reaches him that his plans to cast King Harald into oblivion have failed, he’ll look for the likeliest suspect, and that you, son, happens to be you. Not that I wish you’d done anything differently. But it’s wise to protect you.”

  He’d been away much of the summer, and Elgiva had joined him on several occasions. He knew that problems were awaiting him when he returned to Mercia, and not just because she’d ensured he knew. The drought persisted, and the crops would be ruined, and this was when people were still trying to rebuild following the terrible storm of the year before. His father remained with Harthacnut, but Ælfgar doubted he would do so for long.

  The king was far from the joyful child he’d once been. Ælfgar struggled to find anything that reminded him of his one-time friend in the grim-faced man he was greeted with whenever he attended upon Harthacnut.

  Ælfgar had considered what Harthacnut saw when he looked at his old friend too. Ælfgar was sure he’d changed little in the last twelve years, but he was married, and a father, and he was his father’s heir. He couldn’t deny that his ambitions were probably very different to Harthacnut’s.

  In contrast, Ælfgar’s cousins hadn’t changed at all since childhood, and it was Wulfstan and Ælfwine who greeted him on his arrival at Oxford.

  Since they’d returned from Denmark, they’d been tasked with ensuring all the necessary repairs from the storm last year had been carried out. It hadn’t given them the perfect opportunity to find out just what people thought of their new king. In five years, three different men had ruled England. It hadn’t been an easy time, and Ælfgar was aware of unease from the inhabitants of Oxford and knew it probably ran rife throughout all of England.

  But those thoughts were not occupying his cousins, as they rushed to greet him, surrounded by a herd of hounds, as though they were the head dogs.

  “Have you heard about King Donnchaid Mac Crinain?” It was Ælfwine who demanded an answer to his question. He stood to the side of where Ælfgar was dismounting. Elgiva was attempting to do the same, although Wulfstan had gone to her assistance.

  Ælfwine seemed to have spent the entire summer outdoors. His hair was almost blonde, and his face had shaded to the colour of dark ale, only the faint lines from where he must have spent much of that time screwing his eyes half-closed against the sun, showed his usual skin tone.

  “What about King Donnchaid Mac Crinain?” Ælfgar asked, bemused that this was Ælfwine’s most significant concern. There were enough problems in England, without his cousin concerning himself with the land of the Scots, so far to the north.

  “He’s dead.” There was incredulity in Ælfwine’s voice, as Ælfgar moved to stare at him in shock. He finally understood the impatience that had infected his cousin, as he moved to bring the reins to the front of his horse’s head, in the process of removing them.

  “Truly?” Ælfgar demanded to know. Beside them, Wulfstan spoke softly with his wife, no doubt sharing news of a more personal nature, perhaps about Alfifa and her son that they’d learned from Danish allies.

  “Yes, Macbethad Mac Findlaich is now king.”

  “How do you know this?” Ælfgar demanded to know, his mind half considering whether he should return to London or not and inform his father, even though he’d only just dismounted.

  “A messenger from Earl Siward. Don’t worry, we sent him to London. I’m sure the king will know by now.”

  Still, it gave Ælfgar something to think about, as he followed his wife inside the house. Food and drink had been laid out for them inside. Ælfgar greeted the door warden, Eadsige, and the men who’d stayed in Oxford while he and his father had travelled to London after Harald’s sudden death.

  Elgiva rushed to greet their two sons. Burgheard stood beside the woman tasked with their care while Elgiva was gone, his eyes watching them stream into the hall. Edyth held Eadwine in her arms, and Ælfgar could already tell that his youngest son had grown in his absence. He seemed almost about to spill from Edyth’s arm, and Ælfgar didn’t miss the look of swift relief when Elgiva took Eadwine from her.

  But Ælfgar’s thoughts were on the news Ælfwine had shared with him. Unease in the land of the Scots could make them weak. Earl Siward might well think to prove his worth to the king by invading there. Equally, Harthacnut might think an attack on the kingdom of the Scots an excellent way of creating the reputation as a warrior that so far eluded him in England. No English person genuinely cared about his wars in Denmark and Norway.

  “Share the news,” Wulfstan encouraged Ælfgar, having allowed some time for his cousin to recover from the journey, and to drink and eat. “Is it true that Harthacnut had Harald dug up and thrown in a bog?” Wulfstan spoke with revulsio
n, while Ælfgar nodded.

  “He did yes, but then he had him pulled out and thrown in the Thames instead.” In a quieter voice, Ælfgar beckoned his cousins closer. “We found him, my father and I, with the aid of the Danes of London. He’s been reburied in their church, but it’s not widely known.”

  The two nodded, and Ælfgar knew the information would go no further. He then raised the volume of his voice, although he didn’t shout.

  “And Earl Godwine has been judged by the king and compelled to pay the wergeld price for Lord Alfred’s life. In fact, more than four times as much. Earl Godwine dressed it up as a fine gift for his king and the son of his oldest ally. Still, it was a ship, fully fitted out with everything, and suitable for eighty men, and with those eighty men included.”

  “Yet Earl Godwine remains under suspicion. Harthacnut has ruled that only the hereditary lands held by his father will pass to his family on his death. The title of Earl of Wessex is not included in that.”

  Ælfgar allowed himself to enjoy the look of shock, and also grudging admiration, on the faces of his two cousins. Harthacnut was not proving to be an easy man. Still, his determination to cast Earl Godwine low couldn’t help but aid his family. Not that they were going to gloat about it. Well, maybe just a little, and in private.

  “What does Lord Leofric say about it?” It was Ælfwine who thought to ask.

  “My father is a cautious man, as you know from long experience. He says it’s too soon to determine if Lord Godwine will remain in such a position, or if he’ll somehow manage to atone in the eyes of Harthacnut. Certainly, the court is rife with suspicion and rumour.”

  “And, Earl Godwine was not the only one to suffer. Harthacnut wanted to force Archbishop Ælfric to stand trial as well, alongside Bishop Lyfing of Worcester, but the Archbishop of Canterbury wouldn’t allow holy men to be tried in a secular court. They convened an ecclesiastical court, only by the time they met, Archbishop Ælfric had managed to cast the majority of the blame onto Bishop Lyfing. Lyfing has been deprived of his bishopric of Worcester, but it’s Ælfric who’s gained it.” The conniving actions of Archbishop Ælfric didn’t sit easily with Ælfgar. Especially not when he knew Bishop Lyfing so well.