Death of a Saxon Thane

By Daniel Kissane and Alice Kissane

Harold Godwinson, Under-King of England and Earl of Wessex, investigates the murder of a minor noble in his brother, Leofwine's earldom. Leofwine has been found standing over the body of the murdered man holding the murder weapon. A terrible trial by ordeal awaits Leofwine if Harold cannot find the real killer. The matter becomes personal when Gyrth, another brother, is attacked at a midsummer fair and lies close to death.

The book is about 330 pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Kissane
• Release date: Jan 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215769010

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

LONDON, 1061 A.D.

Brethren, draw near, and witness the judgment of God, the priest solemnly intoned. 

The crowd shuffled forward between the massive pillars of white Caen stone to watch the villein slowly roll up the right sleeve of his homespun tunic. He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow and rough, weathered cheeks then rubbed his hand on the side of his breeches. Lifting his arm to arrange the sleeve, he stopped suddenly and drew his hand close to his face. He stood and stared as if seeing the limb for the first time. He studied the lines on his palm then turned his great, callused hand, eyeing the veins and creases of his fingers and the broken, dirt-encrusted nails.

Someone in the crowded church coughed bringing the farmer out of his trance. He pulled his quivering hand to his chest and hugged it close, nervously watching the priest opposite him. They stood below the altar hovering over a large cauldron placed on a bed of glowing coals. Water bubbled and boiled in the iron pot sending clouds of steam wafting up into the man’s face. Sweat once again poured along the creases and crags of his wrinkled countenance.

It is time, my son, the priest said. Give me your hand.

All eyes in the massive stone structure were on the thin, gray haired man as he slowly extended his arm toward the priest. Suddenly the cleric lunged across the boiling cauldron to grab the limb but the man gave a loud moan and collapsed in a heap on the flagstones. He lay in the aisle, filling the air with a high-pitched keening.

The crowd began to murmur angrily and the priest beckoned to a pair of burly, bearded soldiers standing nearby holding fierce broad axes in their thick hands. They moved to the quivering figure now curled up on the floor and seized him, pulling the poor wretch to his feet. They dragged the villein back to the steaming vat then stood holding the weeping man between them.

Be strong in God, my son, the priest said gravely. That He may reveal His judgment.

The villein stared at the pale young priest then sucked in a deep breath. I am innocent, he sobbed. I have killed no one.

He lies! a man screamed.

Prove your innocence, another voice cried out. Onlookers stirred and mumbled their agreement.

The man twitched nervously and tried to turn his head toward the crowd but the guards held him fast. He thrashed his legs, wildly kicking and scraping the gritty flagstone as they pulled him still closer to the steaming pot. The villein moaned loudly as he stared down at the roiling liquid.

The priest held out his hand again. Give me your hand, Wulfric, he ordered. That Heaven may speak on your behalf.

The villein swooned and the two guards fumbled with their weapons as they struggled to hold Wulfric upright. Then one of the soldiers growled and seized the villein’s arm, thrusting it out toward the priest. The cleric stretched the limb over the pot and intoned, Holy of Holies, send us a sign. Help us to know the truth. Send us your word.

There was a long moment of silence as Wulfric stared at the priest gape-mouthed, his gray eyes wide with terror. Then he took a deep breath and let out a wail plunging his hand into the scalding water. The crowd gasped then roared its approval as seconds later the shrieking man wrenched his blood red arm out of the cauldron with a mighty splash.

Your fate is with God now, the priest shouted over Wulfric’s screams. If your burns are mended within three days, all will know that Heaven has judged you to be innocent.

The guards stepped away and two women wearing long, brown homespun shawls, hurried over to the crazed man writhing and moaning on the floor. They struggled to lift Wulfric to his feet then led him down the long aisle of the church, his arm extending out from his body in a grotesque salute. People pushed and shoved to get a closer look then squealed in horrified delight at the white blisters forming on the villein’s arm. The interior of St. Paul’s quickly emptied as the crowd followed the weeping man and his family outside.

The priest stepped away from the cauldron and approached a group of men dressed in fine linen mantles sitting on benches placed at the front of the church. He nodded, acknowledging their greetings and expressions of approval then moved quickly to a tall, broad-shouldered man seated on a large wooden armchair by the wall.

The priest smiled weakly and rubbed his hands together. It went well, Earl Harold? 

Harold Godwinson slowly stood and smoothed his long, thin mustache. Aye, Father, he sighed. It went well. 

He had the golden hair and brilliant blue eyes of his Danish forebears and the deep voice and commanding air befitting his rank. The Earl of Wessex as his father before him, Harold was now Under-King to his majesty Edward, known to all Christendom as the Confessor. New to the land, the position was created by the Witan, the king’s counselors and enabled the aging monarch to delegate most royal duties. It would also, many whispered, prepare the Golden Warrior for the throne.

Wulfric was found guilty, my lord.

I know, Father. Harold shot a glance at the housecarle standing next to his chair and the two men moved toward the aisle, their muscular bodies moving with an easy grace.

Still he continued to assert his innocence, my lord, the priest stammered, nervously eyeing the earl as he scurried to keep pace with the long strides of the taller men. I bade him to confess but...

Harold suddenly stopped in the center of the nave and whirled around to face the pasty white face of the young cleric. He was found guilty after his compurgators faltered in their oaths.

Evidence that God adjudged him guilty, my lord.

Evidence of guilt? he thundered. More likely proof that three villeins, never more than a day’s journey from home since they popped from their mothers’ bellies, stood before the moot, trembling with fear as they stumbled over their words. And this sad testimony betokens the guilt of Wulfric? 

The priest opened his mouth to speak but seeing a dark look cross Harold’s face, quickly snapped it shut.

Then the poor villein was forced to fast for three days before being dragged into this holy church and asked again for his confession.

He was given the chance to gain the testimony of Heaven... the cleric protested.

He was given the chance to plunge his work arm into a cauldron of boiling water, the earl bellowed. The few villagers who lingered in the church to gawk at the Under-King caught the anger in Harold’s voice and scurried out the massive wooden doors propped open at the east end of the structure.

The priest staggered backward, quivering as he watched Harold finger the haft of the broad-bladed, double edge sword hanging from the wide leather girdle around his waist. He stared at the earl’s left hand and caught a glimpse of the traditional Saxon tattoo on his thick wrist. Craning his neck, he saw that it was a small image of the dragon of Wessex. Harold noticed the cleric staring at his hand and wondered if he was giving any thought to the villein’s now scarlet arm and useless hand.

The villein now has one limb to sow the seeds and harvest the grain that will keep his family alive, Harold said.

The priest winced. He has three days, my lord. We will examine his wounds in three days...

I will not be here, Father. Harold stood in the doorway, the muscles of his lean face tight. I will send a man to stand for me.

Godspeed, my lord. The young priest bowed his head and scampered happily down the long aisle relieved at his escape.

Harold sighed as he stepped out into the courtyard. He squinted to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight then observed the noisy scene before him. The large crowd, drawn by the spectacle of the ordeal, was milling about trestle tables and rough wooden stalls set up by enterprising merchants.

The people of London were in a festive mood and they cheered lustily for the popular Under-King as they parted to allow him and his carle to pass. Earl Harold was an imposing sight in his pale yellow cloak trimmed with a wide band of red and fastened at his left shoulder by a silver brooch encrusted with rubies. His breeches were brown linen, cross-gartered with dark bands and tucked into soft leather boots.

The two men strolled along, glancing at the tables laden with all manner of goods: folds of wool and linen cloth, jugs of French wine and Iberian olive oil, rows of brooches and strands of gold and silver, embellished with precious stones. There were loaves of hot bread, pastries of meat or custard, honey cakes and hunks of cheese lining the shelves of the stalls. Baskets of leeks and onions and blocks of precious salt stood glistening in the warm summer sunshine.

We leave London, my lord? the housecarle asked. His scarlet mantle, like the trim on Harold’s cloak, denoted the earldom of Wessex and was part of his uniform as a member of the elite warriors introduced to England by the Danish usurper, King Canute. Each of the six earldoms of the realm had its own contingent of these highly trained men, the only standing armies permitted in the land. 

Harold nodded. Yes, Magnus, as soon as we are able, he said as they hurried to their horses. By the Cross! I would rather face the butchery of battle than watch another poor wretch undertake the ordeal.

CHAPTER 2

THANE CERDIC PRIED the tall, green stalks apart and struggled to wedge his plump frame between them. He sloshed along the row of mud, the sharp, pointed ends of the leaves tearing into his shoulders and thighs. A branch scraped his cheek and he winced and lowered his face.

God’s eyes! he cursed under his breath. He reached up to wipe the blood from his face. Why did I agree to meet in this field? he asked himself. I should have known that there would be no path to tread.

Still cursing, he hugged his arms to his chest and lunged forward, burrowing through the row breaking off bits of stem and scattering the bright green leaves. He lifted his right leg and angrily stamped his foot down on the slippery surface just ahead. Plop! He fell hard on his backside, splattering his costly purple wool mantle with mud.

He reached up, struggling to gain purchase on the surrounding stalks but his fingers only stripped off more bits of straw and greenery. He growled and sputtered, flinging the debris to all sides.

Suddenly a hand appeared above him.

About time I would say, he snapped. Help me up.

He used his heels to dig into the mud then lifted his left hand to grab a firm, thick stem as he accepted the proffered hand. He grunted and wheezed as he slowly pulled himself away from the muck and rose to his feet. The helping hand was hastily withdrawn and he tottered for a moment trying to regain his balance.

My new cloak is ruined, he snarled, smoothing out the sides of the cloth.

He straightened up and narrowed his eyes, straining to see the figure standing in the shadows in front of him. Where are you? Come out and face me.

The figure stirred and a sardonic smile slowly played across the face of the stout thane. That’s better. Now I can see you. 

He stepped forward, using his belly to shove the stalks of grain apart. He stopped, his body butting against the silent figure.

There was a flash of brightness then a powerful blow to his body. He was forced backward with the force of the punch. What? he said, stunned. A sudden warm wetness spread over his stomach and he reached down to feel his middle.

His hand struck a long metal object extending from his body just above the silver buckle of his ornate handtooled belt. He raised his brows in mute question and his lips parted but he could not speak. He moaned at the intense pain. The agony of a knife in his belly. 

It only lasted for a moment. Then there was blackness.

CHAPTER 3

THE KING LEANED FORWARD on his throne and reached for a bundle of sticks laying on a nearby trestle table. Like a child at play, Edward enjoyed manipulating the wooden model of the church being built just down the path from his manor on Thorney Island. The abbey was known as the West Minster to distinguish it from St. Paul’s within the city walls some two miles down the Thames.

King Edward was tall and thin with a gaunt, pink face. A long white beard trailed down over his embroidered tunic and strands of wispy white hair curled out from under a red bonnet encircled by a wide crown of gold. He wore a blue mantle trimmed with ermine, fastened at the shoulder with a brooch encrusted with precious stones. His storklike legs were wrapped in wool leggings and soft blue slippers warmed his tiny feet.

Have I shown you the new design for the cupola, Tostig? The king raised his head to speak to a blond man sprawled out on a bench with his back against the rough plaster wall.

No, majesty. I have not seen it. He yawned and stretched then turned to smile at the frail, old man.

It appears that I have I worn you out, young Godwinson. The king laughed. The hunt was too arduous for you?

Tostig stood up and crossed the room to lean on the table. No one can keep up with King Edward when the chase is on, he said with a grin.

Boredom, not weariness, had caused him to yawn but he knew what the king wanted to hear. Still, it was true that few could match the old man at the hunt. Despite his age and ill health, Edward was known for the frenzied orgies of slaughter that invariably followed hours of early morning devotion.

Certainly the decoration in the royal chamber reflected the king’s love of the chase: on one wall, an embroidered tapestry bordered in green and gold depicted men on horseback pursing a stag and on the other, a hanging showed a pack of hounds holding a wild boar at bay. Even his oaken throne was festooned with images of wild animals, the king’s fingertips resting on the carved heads of snarling wolves. 

I will be easier on you on the morrow, my friend. The king patted Tostig’s hand. Harold can show off his new falcon.

The young man frowned. He had not come all the way down to London from his earldom on the Scottish border to spend time with his oldest brother. The whole point in being with the boring old man was to make Harold jealous. He may have the exalted title of Under-king, Tostig thought, but everyone knows that I’m the one that the king loves. 

There was a knock at the door and the king grunted in response. The Under-King entered followed by a young boy bearing a large stoneware jug and an armful of horned drinking vessels.

Harold, we were just speaking of you, the king said brightly.

I had need of some wine after my ride. The earl bowed his head to the king and motioned the servant to a table at the far end of the room.

Cause to make me very happy to see you for a change, brother. Tostig grinned as he ambled over and poured himself a mug of pale yellow wine.

The servant handed the king a ram’s horn trimmed in gold. Then, at a sign from Harold, he bowed and hurried from the room.

I was telling Tostig that we would inspect your new saker tomorrow, the king said. I have rarely seen such a powerful bird.

Harold narrowed his eyes and wearily lowered his mug from his lips. I was hoping to leave court on the morrow, sire, after the daily work is concluded. I have need to go to my manor at Bosham.

That saddens me, Harold. You will be missed at court, Edward said, frowning. He craned his neck to stare at the earl. What troubles you? You look unwell.

Tostig laughed. Sick of me, I’ll wager. He sat on the wooden bench, one foot lazily resting on the seat, and stared at Harold. They were clearly brothers, both square-jawed and muscular with mustaches and blond hair worn long in the Saxon fashion.  But Harold was almost a head taller and Tostig leaner with the cold, hard eyes of a predator. The look of a bloody Viking, his father had teased his Danish born wife. 

Nothing is wrong, sire. Harold pulled his fold-stool nearer to the throne and sat with his back to his brother. I merely yearn for the seashore.

And for your beautiful wife? The king craned his head to wink at Tostig.

Yes, sire, it’s true that I miss her and our family. It’s been more than six months since I was with them. But I’ll return to court at St. Swithins when you travel to Winchester. Tostig can keep you company, Harold said, turning his head to glare at his brother. Until he returns to his earldom.

I have only been here a fortnight and already you chide me, Tostig muttered.

Your people scarcely know your face, Harold snapped. Tostig’s frequent absences from his earldom had long been a bone of contention between them. Harold wanted his brother to pay more attention to his quarrelsome Northumbrians in the north in order to keep the peace of England.

As I have said times beyond counting, Northumbria is secure, Tostig shouted, slamming his drinking horn on the table.

Yes, yes, all is well in my kingdom, Edward broke in. The Godwinsons protect England well. He smiled, nervously clutching the arms of his throne.

A tense silence fell over the room broken only by the sound of a noisy flock of crows outside the unshuttered window. The men sipped from their mugs, each lost in their own thoughts until Harold finally spoke.

Majesty... Harold paused looking for the right words. Before I leave, I want to talk with you about Wulfric, the villein accused of murdering the swineherd...

Murder? he mumbled vaguely. The king had lowered his drinking horn and was again diverted by the wooden model of his church. Leaning over the arm of his chair he removed a wall from the side of the church and ran his finger lovingly along the roof to the tower. He lifted his head and called out gaily, Tostig, come here. I want to show you something.

Majesty... Harold began.

Yes, Harold. You were going to tell me about the villein, the king said absently.

Tostig rose and moved to stand at the king’s side. He narrowed his eyes and studied his elder brother’s face. Harold’s eyes were clouded with worry. He was brooding about something. Was it possible that the Under-King was troubled by the death of a lowly swineherd? A sudden of look of comprehension flashed across Tostig’s face. 

The ordeal was held this morning, was it not? Tostig asked, feigning nonchalance. At St. Paul’s?

The ordeal? Yes, I forgot. Edward glanced at Harold. You attended for me, Harold?

Yes, sire. I was there, he said grimly.

Tostig was amused to see the pained expression on Harold’s face. I wish that you had reminded me of it. I would have enjoyed witnessing the spectacle. Did he choose the hot iron or boiling water?

Edward and Tostig turned, eager for his response but Harold winced then said, Majesty, I would speak with you regarding a new system of justice. The idea of having a body of men decide the fate of the accused. A counsel, much like the Witan, made up of wise men who would consider the evidence brought before them then let the man go free or set his punishment without the need for an ordeal.

Without an ordeal? Edward raised his eyebrows. But what of the judgment by God? You cannot mean to abandon the test.

I think that our Golden Warrior blanched at the sight of this murderer’s burned flesh, majesty. Tostig grinned at Harold but quickly turned away when he saw his brother’s face grow dark.

Harold, did the cries of the fiend upset you? You have a soft heart, my son, the king said gently. It is true that God tells us to pity a sufferer but when that man has killed, we must inure ourselves.

Majesty, Harold leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees. I have seen men torn apart in battle but today I saw an act of barbarism in the house of God. Other lands have seen the wisdom of tempering punishment with reason. Even in your cousin William’s domain... 

Edward’s smile faded. You would have me introduce an idea from Normandy? You of all men know that the people of England resent any foreign influence. Particularly from my mother’s land across the narrow sea.

Edward had grown up in exile, summoned when more than forty years old to assume the throne of a country he little knew nor much loved. Those Normans in his entourage had found themselves unwelcome and many had been forced to flee England, replaced at court by Earl Godwin and later Harold and the rest of Godwin’s brood.

Tostig saw the old man’s left eye began to twitch and he put his hand on his shoulder to comfort him. Take care, sire. He glared at his brother. Harold misspoke. 

There’s an end to it. I will hear no more. Edward banged his hands on the sides of his throne. The law will remain as in the days of King Alfred.

Harold bowed his head. As you say, majesty.

The king stared at his wooden model in silence for a long moment, nervously twisting the rings on his fingers. I am an old man, Harold, and the ancient ways are familiar. Comfortable. 

Just then the door swung open and a willowy, blond woman wearing a thin diadem of gold over a filmy blue veil entered the room. Her pale yellow kirtle of embroidered linen made a rustling sound as she hurried to the king’s side and knelt to kiss his bony hand.

She looked up at Edward, her soft blue eyes wide with concern. My lord, I had thought to find you in the chapel. It is nearly time for vespers.

Blame your brothers, Edith, the king said, waving his hand at the two nobles. They ply me with wine then tire me with boring affairs of state.

The queen, more than twenty summers younger than her husband, was her father’s bid to place a grandson on the throne of England. But the wily king, more interested in prayer and hunting than getting a child on his beautiful bride, had used chastity as a weapon of revenge on his old enemy. The union was childless. 

I won’t fault Tostig because I know that he amuses you, she said, turning to face Harold. But the Under-King must not weary you with serious matters.

Harold smiled and bowed