In the dim light inside the hall it was still easy to spot his friend Helmstan, for even when he was sitting down his height ensured that his shoulders were level with the heads of his companions. Those shoulders were heaving up and down as the big Mercian showed his hearty appreciation of some lewd joke or riddle. On the tables below the hearth, where the servants did not go, the men from Gloucester and Herefordshire, now under Alvar’s protection, laughed and talked as they passed the food and drink around the table. The Cheshire thegns sitting near them shared an aurochs drinking horn; unable to set it down, they had to pass it continuously or else spill the ale.
Alvar hung his sword on the nail nearest to where his shield lay propped against the wall. He walked over to the Mercian tables, patting Helmstan’s shoulder before he swung his legs over the bench to sit down.
Helmstan turned at the touch and his smile stretched even wider. His dog-brown eyes peered out from under a shaggy fringe and then he pulled his features into a mock frown. “I had wondered if you were too good to sit with us plain folk, now that you have been made a great lord.”
Alvar chuckled. “You will need someone to lean on when you can no longer walk straight. Besides,” he nodded towards the thegns of southern Mercia, “They are my men now but I am not your lord, Cheshire-man.”
The teasing insult induced the expected snort of contempt from Helmstan. “Cheshire? There was never a shire of Cheshire. It was a name made up by Wessex when their kings swallowed our land. My lands around Chester were part of the kingdom of Mercia in better days gone by.” He slurped some more ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Never mind though. Now that you are lord of your father’s demesne…”
Alvar settled back, caught in his own trap and prepared to be snared for some time. Helmstan would not let the opportunity pass to voice his thoughts about the diminished ancient kingdom of Mercia, now governed not by its own kings but by earls appointed by Wessex. Alvar, looking up, wondered which was the greater: the oak beams holding up the roof, or the number of times that Helmstan had lamented the loss of Mercian autonomy.
“And now we can work together to get back all the land that was stolen from the old kingdom. The king has given you back your father’s lands, but what of the fenland? That, too, once belonged to Mercia.”
Alvar refrained from scoffing at the mention of the boggy marshland, but not with ease, for he could not imagine who in his right mind would wish for control of that wind-ravaged swamp. He laid a hand gently on his friend’s arm. “Would that I had one tenth of your passion for the old kingdom of Mercia, but even though I grew up there, the truth is that I took the lands only because they were my father’s. I wish merely to do my duty by keeping the Welsh out and the folk safe within.” He squeezed Helmstan’s arm and released it. “Put away your dreams for your homeland for a while. Here comes the food.”
Helmstan’s mouth hung open, an unspoken nationalist protest doubtless waiting to issue forth, but he hesitated and evidently thought better of it, grabbing the drinking horn instead.
Alvar smiled and waited, looking around the hall while the servants knelt down with the spit-roasted lamb, and the diners took pieces of meat from the serving-plates.
Where once the wall-hangings shone with gold weaving, the embroidery was now snagged and faded. Alvar wrinkled his nose at the smell of tallow candles where beeswax should have burned. He looked down. The linen tablecloth was threadbare in places. There was bread, but it was ordinary barley bread and there seemed too much of it and now Alvar knew why, because the meat was meagre in portion and the serving-platters were soon empty. If the Fairchild did not care to show his wealth as a lord with plenty, he could not hope for men to love and follow him.
Alvar’s plate was full and the servants melted away. He eschewed the dual purpose prong-handled spoon in favour of his own hand-knife. He stroked the silver decoration on the blunt side of his knife, winding his finger along the smith’s engraving, ‘Gosfrith made me’, and gazed without focus as he gathered his thoughts. As he felt again the constricting pressure of the ornate arm ring, Alvar knew exactly what the Fairchild was hoping. Never had so many men been made earls in such a short time. The Fairchild was too young to have proven himself politically and it was obviously his intention to buy the nobles and thereby bind them to him. Might this be the only reason that Alvar had been given his father’s lands? It was possible; Helmstan was right when he said that under the previous kings, Mercia and Mercian lords had not done well out of the expansion of Wessex, so there must be a reason if their fortunes were suddenly to rise. Well, Alvar might have taken the bait, but it didn’t mean that he had to be caught in the net. The king needed guidance, but Mercia needed a worthy lord, and that meant an opportunity for Alvar to prove himself to a dead father.
The hall door opened and the Fairchild sauntered to his seat, but took care to settle his young wife in her chair before sitting down himself. The noise levels rose again as those already seated resumed their meal. The Fairchild took a pitcher of wine from the servant hovering by his chair and served his consort, a gesture at odds with tradition, where the lady of the house personally served the guests. She smiled and held his gaze while he poured, leaning her head towards his chest and stroking his free arm. As Alvar watched the newlyweds it occurred to him that despite their callowness and taste for scandal, they were in love.
Alvar became aware of movement further along the head table as a figure rose unsteadily to his feet. Abbot Dunstan’s lower lip hinged up and down as he prepared to speak. “M-m-my lord King, I would be doing less than my d-duty to God and Church if I did not sp-speak out.”
Alvar looked down at his fingernails. Dunstan had clearly not put the earlier incident behind him; his stammer was worse than usual and Alvar felt unable to continue being eyewitness to his discomfort.
The abbot continued. “Today I have seen much land gifted away. Yet the late king bequeathed lands to certain abbeys and they have not received them.” Stumbling on, he said, “Furthermore, the late king’s widow has also b-been deprived of lands which were willed to her by the king.” Snatching a breath too short to allow the Fairchild to speak in the pause, he said, “And the king’s b-burial itself was unlawful…”
Alvar looked up.
The Fairchild did not move, but sat with arms loosely by his sides. A slight twitch of his shoulder suggested that the king still had one hand on his wife’s knee. The Fairchild’s expression gave nothing away, unless it was boredom. Indeed, as he opened his mouth to speak, his jaw dropped as if he were stifling a yawn. “So, Abbot… On my crowning-day, you begin by threatening me with hell and now you call me a thief. Yes, the late king bequeathed many lands and treasures, some of which seem to have found their way into your hands when they should have come to me. I say that it is you, Dunstan, lowly abbot, who is the thief.”
There was a pause, and then Dunstan spoke, his voice shrill. “I am steadfast and true. I was a faithful servant to the late king.”
“I am not he. And you have stolen from me.”
Dunstan stood his ground, but his eyebrows drew together in a frown, his brave anger giving way to dismay. “N-not true. Those lands belong to the Church.”
The Fairchild placed his hands on the table, pushed himself upright and stared at Dunstan. “You are a liar and you will give back all that you have stolen. As for my uncle the king’s burial, it is better that he was laid to rest in Winchester, for I would not wish you to profit from him in death as you did in life. Do not pretend that your abbey would be the poorer for having a king buried there.”
“B-but it was not lawful. The king wished to be buried at Glastonbury. That was not my whim, but the written will of the king. How could you believe that I would seek to b-benefit from such a burial?”
“Abbot, I know that you will not, for I am sending you from these lands. No, do not speak another word, for I have had my fill of your stammering sermons. First you dare to tell me that I have withheld lands fro
m the abbeys. Then you dare to say that I have robbed a grieving widow. Then you seek to dig up the king’s body, not yet cold, and take it to your own abbey. Get you gone, wretched abbot, before I tell all those who do not already know how you tried to shame me earlier this day. Get you gone from my hall and my lands.”
Abbot Dunstan’s face shone red and moist. Alvar uncrossed his legs and shifted further back into his chair, discomfited by the Fairchild’s clumsy attempt to assert his authority. Dunstan had served the boy’s predecessors wisely and loyally. It was a show of strength on the king’s part that succeeded only in seeming vindictive. Even while Dunstan was leaving the room, the Fairchild raised his ale cup and demanded the toast. “Be hale!”
Alvar had no choice but to raise his own cup and his echo, “Be hale”, rang out as Dunstan passed by the Mercian benches. The abbot stopped but briefly, and stared in Alvar’s direction, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared, before gliding from the room with his head held high, as if he were glad to be leaving the stench of the Fairchild’s kingship behind him.
Ramsey, East Anglia
The afternoon shortened as the sun began to drop from the sky. The beams of reddened light forced their way through the window opening and illuminated a silk slipper, cast off and lying on its side on the floor. Its threads shone golden in the amber-coloured fading light. Outside, the peal of gentle teasing laughter told of dairy maids returning to the cook-house and tired-eyed women emerging from the weaving sheds, while a booming voice identified the reeve ordering the gate to be closed and the braziers lit. Alfreda lay on the bed, listening to the everyday sounds of folk reaching the end of their working day, as she gazed at the pretty slipper. She focused on the delicate threads of embroidery which wound around the opening of the richly adorned footwear, tracing with her gaze the trail of stitching from one side round to the other. She stared as long as she could, grateful for the distraction, then she closed her eyes and waited for the next blow, able to resist protecting with her arm, but unable to stop the instinctive curling into a ball. This time he managed only a glancing blow across the top of her thigh and, though she knew it would bruise, it would not have satisfied him. Finding sanctuary this time in her thoughts, she mused that were she a braver woman she would taunt him for his poor aim and tell him that even as a beater of women, he was a failure. For the most part, he only ever hit her body, because any marks on her face would be visible to the rest of the household, and Elwood of East Anglia would not want his famous father to discover his secret. Not that there was a man in England who wouldn’t sneer in disapproval, for it was not manly to hit a woman, but Alfreda knew that in particular her husband would hate for his father to find out.
She dared to glance up. Elwood wrinkled his nose as he looked down at her; his pinched nostrils were flecked with thread-veins which meandered towards his cheek bones. He lifted his chin and stared at the ceiling, as if engaged in some twisted act of invocation and, as his neck went back, his lank hair sat in untidy clumps upon the shoulders of his tunic. Pale lashes failed adequately to frame his equally pale, small eyes, so that his face was a melded mass of uneven skin tone which rendered it almost featureless. He stepped forward and she readied herself.
But not quickly enough. His frustration at missing his target last time added power to his arm and he thumped his fist into her belly, catching her by surprise and knocking the breath from her body. There was no pain in her stomach, but her chest felt tight and she tried and failed to snatch air into her mouth. Another blow to the same part of her abdomen robbed her of all ability to breathe and as he stood up, his still-clenched hand caught the side of her face and a burning sensation shot up her nose to a point of pain in the middle of her forehead. Gasping for air, she reached a hand to her face and her fingers immediately became sticky with blood. She sank back against the pillow, relieved. He would stop now.
Her husband stood over her, peering at her, and then he turned his back. He let out a sigh which set his shoulders shuddering, adjusted his tunic and left the bower. She waited, listening for the sound of his footsteps to diminish, and then she edged slowly off the bed and sank to her knees, holding the side of the bed until her breath came easily again. Letting go of the bed, she shuffled forward, still kneeling, and lifted the lid of her clothes chest, reaching around until she found one of the linens usually reserved for her monthly bleed. Folding it small, she held it to her nose, dabbing and inspecting until the flow ceased. Outside, the raised voices and increased footfall indicated that folk were moving along to the feast hall. Standing slowly she smoothed her kirtle and stepped carefully to the door. Squinting into the darkening gloom, her lower body still on the inner side of the door, she flapped a wave to one of her serving-women, and pointed to her veil, gesticulating that she needed help to tidy it. She shrank back around the door.
Her woman came to re-wrap her headdress but she worked in silence. Alfreda sat helpfully rigid while the woman rearranged the swathe of cloth, but did nothing to encourage any conversation. The servants on the estate were all deferential, but Alfreda was sure that this woman’s quiet reverence was a result of pity. She needed no confirmation by drawing the woman into dialogue.
Dressed and no longer dishevelled, at least in appearance, she made her way to the hall, still unsure what had caused Elwood’s latest bout of anger. Servants bobbed their heads, but she had no words for them either. At an age when most women of her standing would be running their own household, she was miserably aware that there were no keys hanging from her belt. The women were not hers to command, nor could they be her friends. Not that she needed any words, for as soon as they had nodded their obeisance, they turned away. The only armour she had was to deflect the hurt with the thought that, key-holder or not, she was of higher status than they were and she had no need of their pity. Lifting her kirtle hem with one hand, she quickened her pace and walked on, her chin raised and her free hand placed defensively across her chest.
Ahead of her, Elwood’s two younger brothers were walking with Prince Edgar, their foster-brother. They strode in a relaxed manner, arms draped across shoulders, comfortable and familiar. Laughter rose up, in response, she assumed, to bawdy jokes. She slowed her pace, reluctant to catch up with them, but, as if she had not borne enough, the Devil chose this moment to turn Edgar’s head and he disengaged himself from the pack and hung back, allowing the brothers to walk on while he waited for her to draw level. He fell into step beside Alfreda and, even though she had nothing to say to him, he whistled softly, appearing not to mind the silence.
She remained mute, hoping to bore him away, but he stopped whistling and said, “I would never use you so ill. He should not do it.”
She missed a step and stumbled as her heart began to thump against her chest. Shame then gave way to indignation. “How can you speak so, yet keep these brothers as your friends?”
He shrugged. “I am not answerable for the behaviour of others. All I am saying is that I would not do it.” He lengthened his stride and caught up with the others.
Alfreda stared after him and embarrassment warmed her veins once more. But then she began to muse on his words. Could he put a stop to it, if he wanted to? He was certainly influential; he was the son of one king, the brother of another. When his father died, his uncle became king and Edgar, then a tiny infant, was sent here to East Anglia to be fostered in the household of the most powerful noble in the land. Now his uncle was dead, his elder brother was king and Edgar was heir to the throne. But he was still a child, a mere boy of thirteen. And what could a boy possibly do to help her?
Never in the twelve months she had been living on the Isle of Ramsey had she failed to be overwhelmed by the opulence of the mead-hall. She held her breath as she walked through the doorway, her gaze drawn to its great oak frame where carved wolf heads appeared to guard the entrance. Inside, the support pillars were decorated in a similarly ornate way, but instead of animal heads, the engravings took on the form of tendrils of ivy, symbols of protecti
on, curling their way round the upright posts. Embroidered cloths, worked with golden threads, covered the lime plaster on three sides of the hall, and at the far end, behind the lord’s chair, curtains embellished with chevrons hung from the beams to the floor, separating the lord’s private chamber beyond. The lord’s chair also boasted elaborate carvings, the high back covered in three-armed spirals and interweaving lines, the indentations coloured with gold. Along with all the other chairs for the high table, it sported cushions covered with the same sumptuous fabric that graced the walls. In this place, warm and yet not overly welcoming, Alfreda had sat every night amongst the guests of her father-in-law, the lord of East Anglia. He was a man so trusted by recent kings, and rewarded with so much land, either in outright gift or given temporarily into his custody, that he was known to all as the Half-king. She smiled, despite her sore body and wounded pride. Did the Half-king ever wonder, as he looked back on a life of power, success and influence, how he managed to beget such a spindle of an eldest son?
Most had gathered now and among them were the overseas visitors. The Half-king played frequent host to learned men and traders from the continent; the merchants from Frankia had arrived the previous evening, and sitting with them was the scholar from Germany who had been a guest for the past few months. Alfreda made her way to her seat. She was joined by the only man in the room who was not clothed in bright colours and who displayed no outward sign of wealth, having not even a sword to hang up. Abbot Athelwold sat down beside her and smiled. Despite his drab garb, the abbot’s presence was the warmest attraction in the hall for Alfreda. His eyes, the colour of molten honey, his gentle smile and softly spoken words were always a fillip on evenings such as this. He was retained by the Half-king as tutor to the younger boys, but often he spoke to her of his dreams for reform of the monasteries, plans that he had begun with his friend Abbot Dunstan, but he was concerned to put the nunneries on an equal footing. His talk of holy women, pious ladies and gentle abbesses poured balm into her ears which had so often been burned with screamed insults, where the word woman was synonymous with whore.
Alvar the Kingmaker Page 2
