Alvar sat back in his chair. Dunstan had served three kings well and loyally, but the moment he had met resistance in the form of a lustful youth he had shown himself to be mettlesome. It was possible that he sought fame beyond his reformation of the abbeys; there had certainly been a covetous gleam in his eye when watching over the archbishop’s failing body. He had declared his determination never to be banished again and was doing all he could to ingratiate himself with Edgar. Alvar’s first day in the witan had shown him that Edgar would favour whoever could give him what he wanted. Everyone was elbowing for power and Alvar would have to do it too, or be swept aside. He was thrashing in water too deep for his liking but had no choice but to start swimming, for if not he would bring shame upon his father’s memory. In the meeting, raw and untried, he had perhaps spoken too much and too harshly, and it was probably not a good idea to antagonise the churchmen, but he must step in and make sure that Edgar was not influenced too much by the Church’s self-interest. Although he was still feeling light-headed, Alvar knew that there was no more time for wondering how it was that he had been picked up, spun round and placed in this absurd situation. He had sworn loyalty to Edgar, his king had asked for his service, and now Alvar knew that he must use more than his sword arm in the giving of it. He raised his head as the bell from the chapel broke into the stillness as it called those in the hall to compline. Alvar sprang to his feet.
He paused in the doorway as Elwood of Ramsey and his youngest brother walked by in silence on their way to the chapel.
Alvar, affable mood restored, called out after them. “Why so grim, my lords; have you so much to confess that you have forgotten how to smile?”
Elwood laid a hand on his brother’s arm, turned and retraced his steps until he was level with the entrance to the chamber. He lifted his chin and stared at Alvar through eyes drawn into nearly shut lines. “Oh I can bare my teeth, my lord, as I think you witnessed in the meeting. You saw what we did this day and we have barely begun. You are a warrior in an age of peace, and it is we swift-witted men who are the strong ones now.”
Alvar shrugged. “There will still be a need for warriors if the Vikings ever come back. Meanwhile, I’ll do whatever England needs.”
“You still do not understand, do you? This is not about England; this is about us and you.”
The brightness of Alvar’s mood dimmed once more. Ever since the coronation debacle at Cheddar and his speedy reassessment of the Fairchild, he had learned to value those who based their judgements on what they saw, not what they heard. “At least let me give you a reason to hate me,” he said. But then he sniffed. “Although, having seen your choice of friends, I must say that I am beginning to be glad that you do not count me amongst them.”
Elwood stepped closer, his breathing rapid and shallow. “I will make friends where I need to until I get back what you stole from me.”
Alvar was puzzled by his comment, and the fact that even now the man’s breath smelled oddly fresh. What had he been drinking all day if not the ale? And what kind of a man eschewed the king’s ale at the king’s table in the king’s hall where every other man, including the king, was more than comfortable in his drunkenness?
Elwood stalked back down the corridor and his younger brother waited until he was back alongside him before he dared to scowl.
Abbot Athelwold, Edgar’s former tutor, came quietly along the corridor and stopped in the doorway. Like Bishop Dunstan he was nearing his fifties, but, as he lifted the corners of his mouth, the skin between his dark eyes and high cheekbones remained smooth and unwrinkled. His hair was only barely flecked with grey and still dominated by fine strands that shone golden brown in the hearth-light.
Athelwold smiled. “I take it that you are not now coming to night-song, my lord?” He shuffled past, turned and said, “I understand, but take care. You are not the only son of a great man with a place at the king’s side, and you are not the only one with a yearning to keep it.”
Alvar stood in the doorway after the abbot had departed, silently paying him the courtesy of considering what he had said, because as tutor to the East Anglian brood he must have based his statement on personal knowledge. But whilst he could acknowledge the warning, there was little Alvar could do to act upon it. What was it that Elwood thought had been stolen; the land which Alvar’s father had held, or perhaps he perceived the theft of Edgar himself? Alvar was stacking up enemies without trying too hard and his briefly found optimism for his new role was now swiftly waning. He sighed. Perhaps Helmstan had had the right idea, going home to his wife as soon as the meeting had ended. So Alvar trotted off down the corridor, his nostrils twitching for the smell of Eva’s scent and a clue as to where she might be.
Chapter Three AD958
Helmstan’s house, near Chester
Káta pulled down a green-shoot branch and held it while she stepped out of the woods and onto the path. She let it swish back into place and stood with her face turned skyward, eyes closed against the sun. Switching her weight from one foot to the other she listened for the squelch as each shoe sucked away from its mould in the mud. A mistle-thrush sang its agreement that spring had arrived and she opened her eyes to look up into the trees. Unable to spot the bird, she turned and waved as Hild of Oakhurst sauntered up the path, leaning, as always, on her stout blackthorn walking stick. Some said that an Irish monk gave it to her, some that she kept it to beat her numerous children. Some even suggested that she used it to fend off her husband, but Káta was sure that they were teasing.
“My lady,” Hild said, pointing her stick skyward, “I see that you, too, are thankful for the sunshine.”
“I am as glad as that throstle,” Káta said. “With this sunshine, the roads will dry out and firm up, and my husband will soon come home.”
Hild tapped the ground with the blackthorn. “Aye, God willing. Lord Helmstan has been away more days than not in these last twelve months.” She took a step forward and laid her free hand on Káta’s arm. “Not so lonely that you yearn for your old hall and a warmer hearth?”
Káta shook her head. “No. I’m glad this is my home now. And there is so much to be done when Lord Helmstan is away, I have no time to think of my old life.”
Hild smiled. “Not as busy as we could be, eh?” She winked.
Káta knew what she meant and would accept no more gratitude. There had been three bad harvests in a row, and the first thing she had done as Helmstan’s lady was lift the obligation for feasts to be cooked on saints’ days.
“My little ones are running round with fat on their bones now, thanks to you.”
Káta waved her hand. “You owe me no thanks for that. We were blessed that there was no fever. Oats and barley might not have grown well, but there is always fish to be had from the Dee and I would have been a dull-wit if I had not learned swiftly to send to Chester for our needs.” She leaned forward and touched Hild’s arm. “You know, it was no great hardship to leave Northampton. If you had met my mother…” She pulled her veil lower on her forehead and squinted until her cheeks lifted. She hunched over and wagged a finger, imitating her mother’s harsh tones. “I had to cross the sea from Denmark when I was wed but you, daughter, have only to take the road west.”
Hild laughed at the impersonation. “Your mother must be a fire-breather indeed, my lady.”
“Oh, you ask Gytha about my mother; she would brook no thought of being left with her, and came here to live with me. Before we left, Gytha told her that the dragon heads on the Viking long ships were carved in her likeness.”
Káta bent over again and teased Hild with the wagging finger. “My mother said, ‘Take the idle bag of bones, then, for she is too slack for my house.’”
Hild held up her stick as if to ward off evil spirits and set off backwards down the path. “Not to be rude, but I would hate to meet the woman who frightens even your Gytha.” Laughing, she turned and ran a few steps, slowed to a walk, and waved without looking back.
Káta chuckle
d. Turning her back on the line of trees which marked the edge of the forest, she climbed the fence where the path crossed the mill-track. Burgred the herdsman had been milking when she passed him earlier, but now he was holding a lamb, one of the first of the new stock, grown fat and almost as big as the adult ewes. He waved a temporarily free arm at his lady before he grappled once more with the headstrong beast. Káta laughed as the lamb sheep-smiled at him. All the lambs and kids born this year were healthy. If they remained blessed, the hungry winters were behind them.
She slowed her pace to climb the upward slope on the far side of the field. As she came down the other side her toes pressed against the soft leather of her shoes, and she turned her feet sideways until she reached the path which linked the field with her home, the settlement of Ashleigh. Káta pushed open the gate and stepped into the enclosure.
Outside the bake-house Siflæd, wife of Wyne the miller, was sitting with her back against the wall. Her cheeks were flushed and, beneath the edge of her headscarf, wisps of damp hair clung to her face. She used a scarf which was Norse in style; a silk cap fitted closely to the head and tied at the nape.
Káta smiled and said, “I see Gytha has lent you another hat. Is it hot work today?”
Siflæd scrambled to her feet. “It is, my lady. But the first loaves are cooling and the next batch is baking. I stepped out only to get away from the heat of the oven for a while.”
Káta gestured with her open hand towards the ground. “No, no, all is well; you sit. It is cooler here in the yard. I was thinking, though, that the roads from the south might be hard enough to ride now, which means that Lord Helmstan might be home soon. Can we bake a few more loaves? Would it help to knead the dough outside?”
“It would, my lady, thank you. There is enough flatbread, but if my idle daughters hurry with the grinding, I can bake with yeast and the finest ground meal to make risen loaves for the lord. With your leave, I will go now and get my man Wyne to lift me down another bag of meal.”
On her way to the main hall, Káta stopped outside the cook-house. Amongst the sacks of dried beans and mushrooms stacked against the open doorway, a bag of peas was flapping open. She reached down and let a scoop of the hard pellets run through her fingers before she caught the corners of the sack and tied them. She turned sideways to peer through the doorway but stepped back as two flustered chickens squawked through the doorway in a flurry of feathers and outraged dignity, followed by Leofsige the cook, brandishing a knife with a blade that shone sharp enough for any meat, dead or still living. Káta took a step back and slipped. Leofsige lifted the knife and pulled himself to a halt before he bowled into her.
“My lady, forgive me.” He offered her his hand to help her back onto her feet, his giant strength pulling her almost beyond upright. “I had some oats ready to boil up when those hens came in and began pecking at them.”
Káta lifted her kirtle with one hand and twisted round to look at the back of her skirt. “It will dry and brush off, do not worry. I am not bruised, only startled.” She righted the sack of peas. “A good thing I had tied it up. And see, you always get cross when the cats come up from the mill, but they are on your side today.”
He looked behind him. The cats had stretched out low, front paws forward, as the chickens settled to peck outside the bake-house, unaware.
Leofsige clapped his hands and the cats melted away. “They should be warding off the rats from the corn and meal, but I will forgive them this time,” he said.
Káta left him to his muttering and brushed again at her skirt when she entered the weaving shed. Looking down to check that Gytha had replaced the straw rushes, she saw that she had been followed. “Away, cat,” she said. She let go of her kirtle and glanced up at the loom, propped up against the wall with the red and green cloth still awaiting completion. The cat slid round her legs and as she bent down, it opened its mouth in a silent meow. She tickled its chin. “Well,” she said, “It takes two to shift the loom. You are not strong enough, and as we do not have Gytha’s big hands to help, I can leave the weaving until another day, can I not?”
In the hall, she checked the floor and sniffed to ascertain the blend of dried herbs that Gytha had sprinkled around. She walked the length of the room to the private chamber beyond the dais. Here, strewn across the bed, her sewing tasks also awaited completion. She selected a blue woollen tunic of Helmstan’s, ripped during a recent hunt, and a linen undershirt whose stitching had come apart. She picked up her sewing box and collected a stool from the hall. Outside, she put the stool at the edge of the morning shadow, where she would not have to keep moving with the westward shifting sun.
When the rip was mended, she held up the tunic to inspect her stitching. The dogs began to bark at raised voices, borne on the wind from the Chester road. Káta leaned over to look through the open gateway and stood up. Burgred was running towards the enclosure and she thrust the mending onto the stool. Faster than Burgred could run from the fields, Helmstan’s horse was galloping along the lane and Káta reached up to pat her veil tidy. Helmstan turned the horse across the corner of the field and brought the beast to a halt beyond the bell tower. Burgred came alongside him and leaned over, one hand on the fence and the other on his knee as he panted. Helmstan slipped from the horse and handed the reins to Burgred, who lifted his hand but not his head as he fought to find his breath. Helmstan shuffled towards the hall in an exaggerated walk as he eased his legs after the long ride. Káta stepped forward. He scooped her up in a bear’s embrace, spinning her round before he set her down and stepped back.
“Let me look at you, woman. You seem well?” He looked down.
She laced her fingers together across her belly and gave a small shake of her head. She coughed and raised her chin. “I am well. And the better for seeing you home again.” She touched his cheek, scared to do more, unsure of how much to show that she had missed him. “Come inside my lord, you are smeared with dirt from the road, and you must be thirsty after your ride.”
In the hall he sat down, and she picked up a jug of ale from the table by the wall. The once pretty Stamford pottery she had brought from her old home was shabby, the glazed red lines of decoration faded and crackled. She ran her finger along the chipped edge of the cup and presented the good side to her lord. “Will you bide at home a little longer this time?” She fetched a footstool and set it in front of his chair.
He put his feet up, one crossed over the other, sat back, and wiped at his face with his sleeve. “I shall be home a while now, even until the harvest. The next meeting is that of the borough at Chester so I will be there and back in a day. Then the hundred-moot is at Twemlow, not even half a day’s ride. After that the Michaelmas shire-moot is at Chester also, and by then we shall have Burgred’s fat sheep to eat.” He set the cup down on the table, put his feet flat to the floor again and patted his knees. “Come, do not be shy.”
She hitched up her dress to loosen it from her hips and tried to balance on his lap. Shifting her weight first onto one thigh, she then tried to spread it over two, but only succeeded in wobbling over the dip between his thigh muscles. She put her arm round his neck to steady herself, but her cheek brushed his unshaven chin and she sat forward once more and reached with pointed toes onto the floor to anchor there instead.
“Tell me your tidings,” he said.
She ticked off the items with her fingers. “Sigeberht over at Barwick has a new milch cow and Burgred’s girl who went to Chester, she gave birth to a… Oh, you cannot wish to hear all our dull tales. Tell me what you have seen while you have been away.”
He sat back in the chair, pulling her back with him and allowing her to lay her head against his chest. “The Fairchild is still king of Wessex, but his grip even there is weak. I hear that he is bereft after the loss of his wife. We have been north into the heart of Northumbria, deep into the Daneland in the east and rotted our feet in the wetlands of East Anglia. Everywhere we went, men swore oaths to Edgar and pledged to send weapon-men
whenever he might ask for them. Edgar’s hold on the north, the east, and Mercia, is strong. Alvar thinks it cannot be long before Edgar moves to take Wessex from his brother.” He wrapped his arms more tightly around her. “If there is a fight, I will be at Alvar’s side.”
She wriggled her head free. “Then I must hope that day does not come soon.”
Helmstan kissed the top of her head. “All this is good for us too, my love.”
Káta shook her head. “How? It will take you away.”
He kissed her again, this time on the cheek. “It means that Mercia will grow strong again, as it was in the old days.”
Káta rolled her eyes and slipped off his lap. She took a broom from the corner and swept a dead mouse towards the door. “Old dusty tales, oft-heard,” she said, “Of folk who are all long dead. My father told me that the lady of the Mercians was dead and gone before the days of the great Athelstan who was king even before Edgar’s father. Her daughter was shut away, and ever since there have been only West Saxon kings.” She had said too much. It was not her place. She propped the broom against the wall and moved away, her back still to him. She kept her head low, but dared a glance over her shoulder to gauge the depth of his anger.
But Helmstan slapped his hand down on his thigh and laughed. “Dearling,” he said, “Do not ever be frightened to speak your mind to me. When I wed a maiden with Danish blood I did not think to get a shy mouse for a bride.”
She smiled and let her shoulders drop. “Forgive me all the same; I should try not to let my tongue become as sharp as my mother’s.” Before he could make another joke on the subject, she said, “Now, will you eat?”
Helmstan looked around. “Where are all the women?”
Alvar the Kingmaker Page 6
