Alvar looked behind him to the forest and both ways down the lane. “Lady, I have seen naught…”
She lifted her head. Her eyes were full of tears one blink from release. She seemed not to have heard him, for her confession tumbled out anyway. “I have left gifts this morning. In the woods, by the ash tree.”
Alvar let out his held breath. “Is that all? Many folk worship trees, my lady. The Church looks the other way, for the old ways die hard. But I will not speak of it, if that is your wish.” He rubbed his hand across his chin and laughed. “What a sorry sight we make, you about the Devil’s work and me looking like I have come fresh from a night in hell.”
She raised her chin and gave a little shake of the head. “I must go home.” She reached round to lift her skirts and walked off.
He caught up with ease and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I am sorry if you thought I was teasing.”
“Please, my lord, do not.” She was standing stiffly, looking at her shoulder.
He looked down and his hand snapped away as if from a hot cauldron. His apology was lost under the noise of a cry from further down the path.
“Lady Káta, Lady Káta!”
She turned and put her hand up to her brow. “It is Wulfric, son of Brunstan. They farm an oxgang of land beyond the church.”
The boy juddered to a halt in front of them and bent to rest his hands on his knees until his breath came freely. “Lady, you must come. My father is wounded.”
Alvar looked back towards the manor. “I will fetch my horse.”
“No, the way is swifter by foot, over the stile.” She set off at a brisk pace, turning to say to Wulfric, “Go to the hall and ask Leofsige for some bread and morning-meat,” before her skip progressed to a run.
Alvar trotted alongside her, musing that he would not have paused to think about the youngling’s empty belly; his initial reaction was merely to pat his belt to make sure his hand-saex was hanging there. Her breathing grew less rhythmic, but she did not slow her pace until they came to Brunstan’s dwelling, so that although the sun had some distance yet to rise, her already prettily pink cheeks glowed red. He smiled at her and stepped back to allow her to enter the dwelling.
The house had one room, with a central hearth and a smoke hole above it in the roof. A rush-light was guttering and the fire was almost out. Alvar reached to close the door but Káta shook her head. “Leave it; I need the light.”
On a cot at the far end of the room, Brunstan was lying with his left leg out straight. Blood was seeping through the tunic which had been wrapped round the wound. Káta knelt beside him and peeled back the makeshift bandage. With half-returned breath she said, “What happened?”
“One of my ewes got snared in thorns in a ditch on the far side of Lyfing’s field, my lady. I thought I had her, but I fell, twisted withershins, and found myself at the bottom of the ditch with what felt like a bough stuck in my leg. It was really no more than a twig and Wulfric helped me pull it out but…” He winced as she pulled off the bloodstained tunic. “How does it look?”
She patted his good leg. “Not as bad as it feels. I will wash it for you now, then I will send Wulfric back with some vervain to put on it to stop it from festering and he can brew up a wort-drink for you; it will taste bitter but you must drink it all. Afterwards, drink watered ale if you are thirsty.”
Alvar stayed by the door, redundant, as she bathed and dressed the wound, using her veil as a bandage. With her sleeves hitched up, her scar showed white on her warm hand. Her fingers moved with speed and yet the wounded man did not flinch at her touch. She stood up and tidied Brunstan’s few possessions. She handed the bucket to Alvar.
“You can fill it up again from the stream outside.”
Alvar chuckled softly, amused by her ability to dispense with all notion of rank as she assigned him his task. He ducked his head and stepped from the dwelling, dropping to one knee at the edge of the brook to scoop a mouthful of water for himself. He walked back in with the full bucket and placed it on the floor by the hearth, where Brunstan’s meagre collection of pans and utensils lay.
Káta was on her feet. She said, “I will send food back with Wulfric, but before he leaves the hall I will show him how to shred and blend the herbs. Burgred will help him with the flock until you are on your feet again.”
Out in the sunshine again, Alvar said, “In there, when you handed me the pail, it was as though you forgot that I am an earl.”
She put her hands up to her face. “My lord, I am… How can you forgive me?”
“I liked it.”
She lowered her scarred hand, but the other remained on her head, reaching for her veil. “I am sorry my lord, what did you say?” She twisted round to look behind.
Wondering whether to repeat his comment, he took a moment to stare at her uncovered head. It was like panning for gold as with each turn of her head the sun showed new lines of honeyed strands in her hair. “You left your veil on the man’s leg. Do not worry,” he said. Still in awe of a lady who did not slavishly adhere to the strict fashion codes at court, he sought once more to compliment her. “The ladies at the king’s houses never throw off their headdresses.”
To his surprise, she was not soothed. “No, I can believe that they do not. You must forgive our ways.”
He retreated. “All I meant was that you will be cooler without it. Will you wander a while?”
Her answer was merely deferential. “If that is what my lord would like, although you might find me a little dull.” She waved at the path beyond the bridge. “This road will bring us back to Ashleigh.”
The track was busy with folk about their daily business. Káta greeted them all by name; the milkmaids on their way to churn the milk at the dairy, herdsmen moving their beasts along the tracks into different fields, Grim, whose smithy they passed, and Seaxferth the peddler.
“Seaxferth, is your wain still with the wheelwright? You must chide him, for it is too far for you to bring your wares from Chester without it.”
Alvar wrinkled his nose as they walked past the tanning pit, but Káta smiled and nodded at the tanner.
“How goes your little one? Is she on her feet yet?”
Alvar listened to the brief conversation and his regard grew for this lady who echoed his own inclinations, that duty was paramount. When they moved on, he said, “You look after your folk well.”
As she walked, she held out her hand and brushed her fingers through the hedgerow, and now and then she kept hold of a leaf and pulled it free as she went past. She said, “How can there be any other way? I must be as the dock leaf to their nettle stings; they look to me as well as to Helmstan to watch over them.”
“It is true,” he said. “And the Greybeard of Chester speaks highly of your husband. You are truly blessed. It is a bare life which asks for little.”
The smile fell from her face and she slowed down. “I… I had not thought of it like that.”
He frowned. He had intended to flatter, but she had not appreciated his comment. He needed to explain his meaning, that he was envious of her simple life when his was of a sudden so vexatiously complicated. He waited for her to resume walking and then he made another attempt. “Once, I was but a soldier, and then lately became lord of my father’s lands. But this year has taken me away from my brother and seen me swear to one king over another. Now I have to sit at every witenagemot and tell men what I think, for they say it matters.”
She sniffed. “You live a much higher life than mine, my lord.” She strode off ahead.
He cursed under his breath. All he wanted was to convey his admiration that she worked hard and was blessed in return with a blissful, peaceful life, whereas he had yet to feel deserving of the honours thrust upon him, so that his itinerant lifestyle remained a wearisome necessity. But, tongue-tied and blustering, he was succeeding only in convincing her of his arrogance.
He came alongside her once more. He knew he was falling some way short of eloquence, but he ploughed on. �
�You know but little of me…”
She interrupted. “You must have many houses?”
A piece of grit blew into his eye and he blinked and stopped to wipe it. “I do. But I am not oft-times at home, for I have to go to hundred-moots and am needed at all of Edgar’s meetings, wherever they might be.” This time, he was quicker to realise that whilst he was comparing his life unfavourably with her settled existence, he might still be mistaken for a braggart, so he followed it with a refutation. “But I am sworn to the king and must ride where he goes, whether or not I would rather bide at home.”
“From what you say, your life is a world away from mine and Helmstan’s.”
He did not know the reason, but it was important that this married woman knew that he lived alone. “Oh, yes, for I do not have a woman at home.”
“No, I can see that there would be no room in your wandering life for a wife,” she said.
“In truth I think my household might be the better for a woman’s ways, for today I have seen how well you…” His tongue had finally untied itself, but she had gone on ahead.
He followed her onto a tree-lined track. The path was rutted, churned in wetter weather by cart wheels and now baked hard by the summer sunshine. As he caught up to her, she stepped on a raised edge of mud and her foot slipped into the track carved out by the wheels. Alvar moved forward and grasped her elbow, supporting her weight while she found a firmer footing. This time she did not shrug him off, but smiled her thanks. She led the way again and he watched her as she walked, looking at the golden braid of hair swinging softly with each step. Oh yes, his household would certainly be better for the ways of a woman such as this one.
In the yard his retainers, apparently regretting the previous night’s ale consumption, shielded their eyes from the daylight as they stumbled through their packing routine. Káta’s cook moved among them with a tray of herby omelettes. One thegn reached out and held the omelette hovering at his lips, before he replaced it and ran to the latrine.
Káta asked the cook if the remains of the food from the previous night had been distributed.
“Yes, my lady, and I gave six eggs to young Wulfric. How goes Brunstan?”
“He will live. The wound was not too deep and it is clean, so it will heal swiftly enough.” She jerked her head in the direction of the men. “It looks as though you will have fewer mouths to feed today.”
Alvar stood by the tether-post and patted one of the horses there. He examined its bridle, making a show of inspecting the leather. She had forgotten him.
“Gytha, is the hall clean?”
“Yes my lady. You were gone a long time; what did you think of…”
He could not make out the rest of the woman’s question and he scowled at the thegn who had dropped his saddle at that precise moment. But he got the gist of the question when the last part of the answer rang out clear across the yard.
“Is a rich man of the king’s house and we are but dull folk in his eyes. Come, we must see if the hens have laid this morning. Is there rennet for the cheese? When I used boiled nettle it did not curdle the milk enough.”
Alvar raised his head and stared out at the hills.
“My lord? Is it a good dream that you see?” The stable-boy who had spoken was holding Alvar’s saddled horse for him.
“No, it was not. But I think it was one that I needed to see.” Alvar took the reins and turned at a shout from the other side of the hall.
A runner pushed through the clusters of men. “Lord Alvar! Where is the lord Alvar?”
“Here.”
The man stopped and panted. “My lord, I come with tidings. We sought you first at Chester. We had hoped to find you here; otherwise we were at a loss to know where to go…”
“Spit it out, then.”
“My lord, the archbishop of Canterbury is dead.”
Alvar sucked in his breath. So the old archbishop, who had tenaciously clung to life for years, had finally loosened his grip. His last act had been a vindictive connivance, depriving the Fairchild of his wife. Alvar could not pretend sadness. But how would they all fare under his successor, whoever he might be? If it was Edgar’s favourite… “Will Dunstan now leave Worcester for Canterbury?”
The runner took a few more gulps of air. “No, my lord. The Fairchild of Wessex has given Canterbury to his friend the bishop of Winchester, who has gone to Rome to be given the pallium by the pope.”
Alvar scratched his chin. His family had long been friends with the bishop of Winchester, but Winchester’s marriage was a long-standing irritation to Dunstan. Now the Fairchild had reasserted his authority, promoted the bishop, thus denying Dunstan the archbishopric. Depriving the Fairchild of his wife had not had the desired sedating effect. Young Edgar had been under no illusion that force would one day be required in order to secure the whole kingdom for himself, but his devotion to the Church had led him to take ill-conceived advice in the first instance. Now; now was the time for the more honest approach of warfare. Alvar smacked his lips together and jumped onto his horse. “Let us go, my fellows. There is a storm brewing at the bishop of Worcester’s house, and King Edgar will need us to take its lightning into Wessex.”
Helmstan was sleeping on his back with his arm under her neck. Káta lay against his shoulder and listened to the quiet of the afternoon. Once the herbs and straw on the floor had been replaced each morning her duties carried her around the estate, rarely to return to the bedchamber until evening. She took the opportunity to look at the room in appraisal. One of the shutters was loose at the hinge and the largest of the wooden chests would not shut. New boxes would be needed if Helmstan’s clothes were to be stored as befitted his rank. The walls were bare; they should be brightened with wall-hangings. They did not yet have the money to put silverware, never mind gold, on the tables, but they needed new cups. Perhaps she could ride to Chester for new pottery, maybe a softer-worked fur for the bed, and while she was there she could buy gold thread for embroidery, to make her walls match those at the royal houses. She was surely not the only young wife who wanted her home to look pretty.
Helmstan stirred and she said, “At the new king’s house; are they all rich men who dress well and dance with the pretty ladies?”
His shoulder twitched. “God, no.”
She lifted her head and he slid his arm from underneath her neck. Turning onto his side, he opened his eyes and smiled.
He yawned and rubbed his face. “There are many rich folk there, but now that Dunstan is back, he and Edgar are keen to show that the court in London is more pious and godly than the old court in Wessex.” He chuckled. “Alvar said to me once that he had seen more mirth at a burial… What is it my love; are you cold?”
“No, it is only that the name brought to mind…”
“Whose name; Alvar’s?”
Pretending a cough, Káta moved onto her back and turned her head away so that Helmstan could not see her face. She found a mark on the corner of the blanket which she must rub off and she kept her head turned to the wall as she thought of the earl. Helmstan loved him beyond measure and therefore so should she, but she had found him haughty. She realised now that it was his arrogant remarks that had prodded her into thinking her home too shabby. But beyond the insult itself, why should she care what he thought of her? The only blessing was that he had been so busy thinking himself too good for the likes of her, that he had not even spotted the scar on her hand, so high was his nose in the air. No, it was to her shame that she could not warm to her husband’s dearest friend.
And yet, she also had a memory of his face. He had been so excited, when he left, at the prospect of a fight, and perhaps being able to be of use to his king. She saw how his eyes lit up, those lovely grey eyes surrounded by squint lines where the sun had not reached, eyes that had teased her into believing that she wished him to look at her more often. She thought about his mouth, set in a permanent smile even when he was speaking, that flattered her into wishing he would talk to her more, even
though her cheeks would set on fire. She lifted her head, breathed in, and stroked her hands down her stomach. She wriggled her buttocks and moved closer to Helmstan, disturbed by the way her body felt. How aberrant, to have such thoughts about a man who was firstly her husband’s greatest friend, and furthermore a man whom she found it impossible to like.
She exaggerated a shiver and hoped her feigned distaste would distract him from the rise of her body temperature. “Dunstan; I meant Dunstan. I have heard what happens when he witnesses sinful acts.”
Helmstan tunnelled one arm underneath her body and wrapped the other around her. He tickled her ribs. “Have you been worshipping at the well-spring today?”
Her diversion had worked and, the danger passed, she exhaled deeply and laughed. “I did as the old women bade me. I left gifts in the hope that I would get with child. Your wife is naught but another wretched sinner.”
He pulled her closer still. With his mouth against her hair he said, “Ah love, the priest sees you every day in his church, so he would not guess.” He lowered his voice and stroked her arm. “Besides, no man would bear you ill-will for craving a child. Churchmen give no thought to the words of the wise women, and the best way to beget a…” He coughed, following it with a laugh that was just a little too loud. “As for Dunstan, he wants to alter the Church, yes, but not little churches like ours, nor their flock. When he is not playing his harp and writing sermons he is telling all who will listen about the sorry plight of the monasteries.”
She drew small circles on his chest with her fingertip. “What is wrong with them?”
“Many were left in ruins after the Vikings came and went. Dunstan and his friend, the abbot Athelwold, wish to bring all the monks under one law, that of Saint Benedict. They will be far too busy to worry about folk in the north who still cling to something of the old gods to see them through each weary day.”
She barked a sharp laugh. “Good for them, for it would be like gathering water in a sieve. My mother is a heathen Dane and she is not alone. Many folk leave gifts by the oak tree for Thunor, many folk leave ox blood on an elf-hill thinking to heal their sick loved ones. If those men were to make laws against such things...”
Alvar the Kingmaker Page 8
