Morcar Alfgarson
Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 27 December, 1066
Morcar, son of Alfgar, Earl of Northumberland, York, and Durham was freezing in the castle.
Newcastle. It was far away from the center of events, far from the Bastard and his conquest, far from the pompous coronation Morcar had helped bring about. He could always just blame Edwin, he could say he had no choice, but neither argument would save him from the blame. He had given London, and by extension, England, to William the Bastard, Duke of Normandy. Perhaps he had not been in his right mind. After all, London was in chaos following the battle of Hastings, in which King Harold Godwinson had fallen to a Norman arrow in his eye, and the child king Edgar was putty in the Leofricson brother's hands. Perhaps they had been drunk on power, thinking they made and broke kings. Not an entirely invalid argument, as indeed their submittal to the Bastard made the Duke of Normandy king and forced Edgar to flee north to Scotland. And he had a sister. Margaret was quite an enchanting presence, jet-black hair tumbling over her shoulders. Morcar had never been married, even though he was thirty-eight years of age already. He was jealous of his older brother Edwin, who was already happily married and had an adult heir, Estmond, who had already been given the earldom of Derby. Which is why the council of Northumberland was gathering. He still had a minute or two to fantasize about the young princess until his advisors gathered, and in his mind the black hair tumbled over his shoulders also...
Elgiva Clifford, a red-haired plain young lady, pranced up and forth the council room floor. She was still nursing a grudge at her liege for appointing her Chancellor instead of Stewardess, for which she was far more capable.
The Chancellor, in 1066
Morcar had given her an intractable problem: Who would be his duchess?
As the Earl and her fellow councilors looked at her meaningfully, she considered the options:
She could turn to the Earl's older brother Edwin, but there were no unmarried ladies there.
Then she turned south in her mind's eye, and had an idea she considered marvelous:
"My lord, why don't you simply turn to the King for a wife? Certainly he would be more than happy to reward you for your 'services' with a noble lady?"
The table smiled grimly at her joke. They all knew exactly what kind of 'services' Morcar had rendered to the king.
But the Earl's problem was not so easily solved. "What do you think, woman?" he thundered at Elgiva, who was now quivering with a mixture of excitement and fear, "that I will wed some old Norwegian crone like Gyda Sparklaegg or King Harold's fifty-year-old sister, whose infertility caused the Bastard's invasion? No, find a better place, or I will find a better chancellor!"
The Royal Widows
Elgiva was shaken by the Earl's rant. But the thought of the King gave her pause. Perhaps another of royal birth would serve Morcar....?
The Earl's smooth red hair shook as Morcar nodded to himself and muttered, "Margaret, oh sweet Margaret..."
And then it struck her like a bolt of lightning from heaven.
"Lord, shall I send to King Malcolm of Scotland for the Princess Margaret's hand?"
Morcar was dumbfounded. He was an Earl after all, how did it not occur to him to ask his northern neighbor for the princess's hand?
"Yes, yes, do that. She will definitely give me strong heirs." he justified his decision to the council.
As the council dispersed, Elgiva dreamed of promotion, and perhaps a husband of her own...
January 13, 1067, Palace of Scone, Scotland
Malcolm Dunkeld, King of Scotland, was a man of two minds. It had been almost a month since the message from Earl Morcar had come to him asking for the hand of Margaret of England, and he still had not decided. You couldn't really blame him: Did he not have bigger issues? His half-brother Maelmuire still haunted his dreams at night, threatening to rebel? The new king of England was already looking like he had expansionist ambitions, proclaiming himself duke of assorted pieces of England as if its throne was not enough. If he gave the child king Edgar's sister to a Saxon lord, that would surely anger William and might bring about war, which Malcolm certainly did not need. He lived in fear of losing his throne like he did when his father died; William was just the newest suspect.
His brother walked by. Donald had been chancellor of the realm for years now, and he had been known to desire Margaret as well.
Malcolm muttered to himself, "Margaret, what a royal pain for a royal man."
Donald was acute of hearing and caught his brother's self-addressed words.
"Brother, have you considered the issue of the English princess yet?" he asked hopefully.
Roused from his internal daydream, Malcolm said, "Indeed, but you must call me Sire or Lord; We have gone over this far too many times."
"All right, Lord Sire" said Donald, "I assume you've come to a decision, or you will do so soon, I hope?"
Malcolm shook his head. "In fact, I would like you to know that I am currently in favor of agreeing to Earl Morcar's proposal."
Donald was horrified. "But Sire, the Conquerer will be angry! He will think we support an attempt to depose him!"
The word depose struck a nerve in Malcolm, and the King of Scotland went white with fury as his blood rose to his head: "No, you bastard you do not understand! You propose to be my helper, when in fact all you want is the Princess! I have had ENOUGH of your presumptuous behavior in treating me like an equal rather than your lord! Now go, and NEVER think of touching Margaret again, do you hear me! If I just HEAR of it you will die with absolutely no warning or mercy!"
Donald walked off into his rooms, but Malcolm thought he saw a glimmer of triumph in his eyes...
A King's authority is supreme.
January 20, Newcastle-upon-Tyne
The royal procession of Princess Margaret of England as she returned to her homeland was impressive for an exiled royal whose only claim to high status was that her younger brother had been king in name only for a few months. And now she was to marry the man who had delivered her brother's realm to his enemies. But in truth Margaret didn't care all that much. Edgar was a follower, not a leader, the sort of person who constantly looks for direction, and in fact was a good an argument as any against hereditary rights and lands. Morcar didn't seem all that bad physically from what Edgar told her, although of course his descriptions of the Earl of Northumberland were quite negatively biased in the personality department. When she entered the castle of Newcastle-upon-Tyne she could not help but suppress a curious thought: Whatever happened to the old castle? If it was destroyed, this is certainly not a good omen...
But the omens in the courtyard were very positive: A large crowd of peasants and men-at-arms greeted the returning exile, and Edgar, who had insisted on coming along in spite of the manifold dangers of returning to England, fantasized about all those crowds shouting: "Hail Edgar King!"
The Earl met them at the foot of the stairs leading to the main habitat tower of the castle. Morcar was flush with passion at seeing Margaret again. Suppressing his errant thoughts, he said to the royal siblings courteously , "My Lady, you are truly as radiant as I remember. And your brother looks like he is growing into a fine and handsome young lad."
The Boy 'King'
Edgar was angered: "I am no mere lad, you conceited traitor! How dare you address your rightful king as a lad and even then after a woman!"
Flush with embarrassment, Margaret said to her husband-to-be: "Don't mind my brother. The last few months have been hard on him." Morcar nodded and said: "I know all too well, my lady, they have been hard on all England." as he peered nervously at Edgar, who was stewing silently beside his sister.
Morcar lifted his gaze to his future duchess, and said: "Come, my lady, let us meet the priest."
And the future ducal couple made its way out into the courtyard, where the priest was already leafing through his book.
The wedding ceremony was one of the most joyous events in the not-so-happy life of Morcar Leofricson. After reciting his vows, he could not contain himself and said "I do" with a boyish excitement. Margaret kept up the image of the obedient young woman and after the priest had finished she knelt before Morcar and said: "My lord, will you lead me to our rooms?" Morcar smiled as he said: "Yes, of course, my lady, but first I must give you a gift." He signaled for the steward. "The gift of the people of Northumberland to their new duchess!" he beamed.
The Marriage Tax
Then the shouting started. "Tyrant!" one called, "Ignoble thief!" screamed another. The tax collectors had been rampant and greedy in recent days as they collected the aid duty from the peasantry of Morcar's fief. Soon some peasants who were angry at having been forced to attend a stuck-up noble wedding that they had paid for from their hard-gained produce tried to assault the steward, another group went for the new couple. Armed guards were required to escort the Earl and Duchess to their rooms, shielding them from a hail of rocks and other missiles obtained at the spur of the moment.
And the Bastard heard, and laughed.
February 15, Newcastle Field
Morcar needed an army. In the medieval period he was not unique in that respect, but his need was more urgent than most. William would not be pleased at Morcar's marriage to Edgar's sister, and perhaps his displeasure would be shown through force of arms. Aelfgar, Marshal of Northumberland had pointed this out to the earl and told him it might be wise to invest on building a training range for soldiers. Morcar heartily agreed, and now as peasant workers labored on the training facillity Morcar and Aelfgar were watching a group of archers practice at a field nearby the castle. Aelfgar said: "Look how they focus intently on their work! Surely you could learn from them!"
"Don't lecture me, commoner!" Morcar snapped, and the marshal was silent. Morcar did intently watch the training men. One man consistently hit the fringes of the mark, another varied between the fringes and outside entirely, but there was one anomaly: One man's arrows always were near if not exactly on the center. Scanning the practicers he found his man, a short, stocky peasant of twenty-five or so. Running over to him, he said in a fatherly voice: "Well done, man!" Surprised, the archer replied: "To what do I owe the honor, lord?"
Morcar said: "To your excellent marksmanship, worthy of a lord! What is your name, man?"
The marksman said in a shaking voice :" Your humble servant Wulfric Weller, lord."
"Well, Wulfric Weller, how would you like to be Master of the Archers in my army?'
The peasant's eyes lit up. "I would be very happy to, my lord. But it is not my skill that helps me aim. It is my bow."
"Your bow?" asked Morcar curiously?
Wulfric produced his bow, evidently homemade. "I made it with wood I chopped down myself, lord. It is a shortbow, as I call it, and because it is short one needs less effort to handle it, and puts more effort into aiming."
Discovery of the Shortbow
Morcar was delighted. "Then you can show all my bowyers how to make this wondrous weapon. Come with me, Wulfric."
As the earl and archer walked off in direction of the castle, Aelfgar could only glower jealously at the two from a distance...
Newcastle-upon-Tyne, April 15
In recent months Morcar had been growing worried. He had been married for three months now, and still Margaret's womb had not yet swelled. Was something wrong with his duchess? he wondered. Was something wrong with him? he wondered, horrified.
He was taking a walk around the battlements of Newcastle. So far no news of royal displeasure had come from Westminster, but Morcar's fear was not assuaged. From the north battlement he could see the Scottish border, and beyond. How was Malcolm doing with a rascal like Edgar prancing about his court? Edgar seemed the type that does not care for personal property... or life....
Edgar's sister came to him. "My lady," he said, "I thought you were taking a walk with Chancellor Elgiva!"
"My lord," she said in a soothing voice, "I am with child."
Margret's pregnancy
His face was a cast of relief and pleasure. "That is the most excellent news of my life! What will we call him?"
"Actually, my lord," Margaret said with half-true half-mock submission, "I was thinking more along the lines of a her."
Morcar could not bear this thought. Finally he was going to have an heir and his wife thought it was going to be a useless daughter?
"You have better give me a son," he threatened angrily, "or you will taste my wrath!"
She looked down from the battlement. Indeed, it was a long way down.
Chapter Notes:
So here I am, yet another CK1 AAR, yet another foolish attempt at success.
I think Margaret Atheling is the Matilda di Canossa of CK1, I always marry her in the 1066 scenario.
Next time on The North Remembers:
A neighborly feud! An incestuous friendship! And courtly hate!
What do I mean by this?
Find out next time on: The North Remembers!
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