Upon these shores by Lyra

Elf Counsel

Written for an uncalled prompt on the B2MeM 2012 Bingo card "Maglor in History": G47, The Vikings Invade Britain. Also sort of covers the B2MeM 2009 prompt for March 22.

Alfred the Great discusses his legal reform with his harp teacher.

Elf Counsel

He wasn't part of the nobility, nor did he have the experience of age, and therefore he was not one of the witan. Máel had come from Ireland in the wake of the Danish assaults on that island. He did not speak of his past, but he must have been educated in one of the great monasteries, for his knowledge of history and lore was extensive, and he spoke Latin perfectly. Some claimed that he was untrustworthy, having escaped the walls of his cloister; but most agreed that when the Vikings burned your halls and slaughtered your comrades, no man could be blamed for running away. At any rate, he took no office, unlike the Welsh monk Asser who dined at Alfred's high table or the bishops who were as influential as any ealdorman. He had the ears of lords and king when he played the harp, but he had neither seat nor voice in the council.

Nonetheless, Alfred treasured Máel's opinion as well as his skill on the harp. The King of Wessex felt that it was not enough to be ruler and warrior, but that a king also ought to be a scholar and a man versed in the arts; and because he liked the soft-spoken, bright-eyed and keen-eared harpist, Alfred had asked Máel to teach him to play his instrument. Even in these troubled days, Alfred tried to make time for his lessons as often as he could. To his grief, he had no particular talent for the harp; but Máel was patient and encouraging and kept his thoughts about the king's disgraceful plucking to himself. And often, when the lesson was over or Alfred's frustration grew too strong to continue, they simply sat and talked. Or rather, Alfred talked, and Máel listened: of hunting adventures, of news from the viking-ridden northern kingdoms, of cases that were brought before the king's judgement. Sometimes, Máel would contribute his opinion, and the king generally found it well thought out and worth considering. When the evening got late and the uncertainty of the future hung over them as a grey fog, Alfred would sketch his dream of a united kingdom, of one Englaland under one king. Others might have laughed at the idea: If, against all reason, one king would shake off the Danes and become ruler of all the Saxons, from Kent to Northumbria, it would hardly be Alfred with his frequent stomach pains, his close-cropped hair, his love for the meek and humble, looking like a frail boy among wild and battle-hardened men even at the ripe age of forty-five.

Máel never laughed; Máel never even gave the impression of secretly thinking that Alfred was an unlikely candidate for the throne of Wessex, let alone an imaginary England. Máel listened. If Máel responded at all, he treated Alfred's ambition as a possible reality. He would ask questions about logistics, about taxation or education; he never asked how in the world Alfred hoped to achieve his dream. Once, bent over by agonising cramps, by doubt and frustration, Alfred had posed the question himself, spitting it out, throwing it at Máel like a poisonous dart: "Why are you acting as if my dream had any chance of coming true? Why do you not say the obvious, that it will never happen?" Máel had ignored the dart, had poured an infusion of soothing herbs, and, when the king had recovered enough to sit up, had quietly said: "I will say the obvious: All the Angelcynn united under one ruler would be far stronger than many small factions under their own small kings. Because it is obvious, others may see it; and if you give them reason to follow you, they will. It is only a dream now, but it is a powerful idea. Sometimes, that is all that it takes." And because Máel knew that the king took consolation from the scriptures, he added, "Think of Joseph."
Alfred thought of Joseph, and let his dream grow.

He was calm now. He was thinking about the laws of his predecessors, and the laws he would need to govern a kingdom of any size. "The basis of the law, of course," he said, his fingers absent-mindedly stroking the harp-strings, "is that every man must always keep his oaths. It barely needs mentioning, but for the sake of completeness..."
To Alfred's surprise, Máel grimaced at these words.
"You disagree?" the king asked sharply. "Do you not think that oathbreaking is the worst of crimes?"
Máel cautiously set his harp aside. "I have come to realise, my lord, that there may be more important things than an oath."
Alfred was shocked. Everybody knew that oath-keeping was the key to civilisation; to hear this idea challenged, and not by a lawless Dane but by soft-spoken Máel, was utterly unbelievable.
"Like what?" he asked in genuine puzzlement, and with all the sternness of a man who has the law on his side.
"Conscience," Máel simply said, and picked up his harp again.
Alfred calmed a little. "But the two go hand in hand, do they not? A man's conscience demands that a man keep his vow."
"Normally, yes." Máel's fingers, too, fell absent-mindedly on the harp-strings; but where Alfred's fingers plucked notes at random, Máel produced complex harmonies, something that suggested the melody of an elaborate, unknown song.
Alfred waited for an explanation, but none came. "Go on," he said.
Máel studied the king's eyes for a while, and Alfred tried hard to control the anger still boiling inside him. At last, the harpist spoke. "A man's conscience should command him to keep his oath," he said. "But what if there are conflicting oaths? What if, in keeping his oath, a man must commit treason? What then does conscience say?"
Alfred did not answer, but he no longer felt angry; instead, he found himself thinking hard. What should conscience say?
"What if one has to break the law in any manner to keep one's oath? If a lord commands his follower," Máel paused to think of an example, "to burn a house and slaughter those within, what then is worse – to disobey one's lord, and thus break one's oath of fealty; or to honour one's oath and kill the innocent?"
The king rose. "I will need more time to think about this," he declared. "For tonight, I cannot stomach more."
"Very well, my lord," Máel agreed readily. "Good night."

"Firstly, we teach that the most important thing is that every man carefully keep his oath and his wed," announced the Archbishop Æthelstan, delivering the reformed Laws of Alfred to the people in the streets. "But if by one's oath, one is compelled to commit treachery against one's lord, or to any other unlawful deed, then the oath is better broken than kept..."
Máel heard it, and smiled.

Chapter End Notes

It appears that, among his many other great achievements, King Alfred the Great first had it written into law that there were circumstances in which oathbreaking was the lesser evil – rather than sticking with the traditional idea that oaths were to be kept under all circumstances. Maybe he had a little help from a friend – after all, the name "Alfred" literally means "elf counsel"...

For what it's worth, historical accounts say that Alfred really tried to learn the harp. They do not claim that he was any good at it.
Alfred did not live to see a united kingdom of England (let alone a United Kingdom that also encompasses Cornwall, Wales, Scotland and parts of Ireland), but he did lay the foundation.

Later medieval law codes introduced further conditions under which oaths could be voided: if they had been made under duress or if, at the time of swearing, one couldn't foresee the consequences. Quite a step from the original Roman principle and quite a clever loophole, knowing human nature (and The Silmarillion ;))...