“No, they would not.” He kissed the top of her head, and spoke in no more than a murmur. “Although, if they could make a law to put a stop to your mother…”
Káta wriggled her head up away from his chest so that she could breathe more freely. “I will forget that you said that. And if you say that I will not be damned for what I did today, then I must believe you.” She brought her right hand up from under the covers and scratched her scar.
“What ails it? Does it twinge?”
“No, merely an itch.” She hid it away again. “It is not as useful as my mother’s finger bones. She always swore that they ached when the wind was about to turn west-wise.” Káta sighed. “I can still hear her screams when she saw my bloodied hand, wailing that she would never find me a husband.”
Helmstan’s belly vibrated against her as the laugh worked its way up his body. “Ha! How little she knew. I was smitten by love the first time I saw you.”
“You say so and I thank you. But I know that most men would not think the same way.” Indeed, how much lower would his friend’s opinion of her have sunk had he seen her disfigurement? She reached up and twisted a curl of Helmstan’s hair round her finger as she stared at the scar, thinking back to the day when the tree-wright reached too high into the tree, seeking to lop one more branch, and lost his grip on the saw. As always when she saw it again from the distance of years, the blade fell to the ground where Káta the child was playing, but her mind came back to the present before it landed. She shivered and brought her thoughts to the strands wrapped around her finger; Helmstan’s hair, coarse but strong. Káta smiled. Her mother always said that sadness did not cook the broth and she was right; life was for getting on with. Her hand was spoiled but not ruined, for mercifully no fingers were severed, and her husband loved her. She propped herself up on one elbow and leaned her head until it was above his. “So, now that I have snared you, I must be sure to be good, or you might call me witch, and then who knows what I might one day be asked to answer for?” She giggled, enjoying the newly found confidence to flirt.
He grinned and put his finger on her lips. “I can tell you that. In my house, it is my word that is law, so you will be found guilty of naught as long as you do as I say.”
She kissed the finger before he slid it away. “What would you have me do?” Her cheeks were warm but she managed to hold his gaze.
The shutter began to clatter against the window frame. He kissed her mouth. “Hark at that. The wind is getting up. You should stay abed with me where it is warm.”
“Well then, if you say so, my lord…” Still smiling, she closed her eyes. She could afford to linger; there was time enough before the storm came to worry about the task of mending a lame shutter tossed in the strengthening breeze.
Worcester
Dunstan’s legs were stiff; he was too old, perhaps, to spend an entire night kneeling in prayer on the cold cathedral floor. But pray he must, if he were to discover God’s plan for him. So far he had received no clear answer, save that it was not to serve Him from the throne at Canterbury. Taking respite now in the comfort of his hall, where the fire blazed in the hearth and the heavily embroidered wall-cloths kept the warmth in the room, he held his hands in front of the flames, flexing them in and out of fists to get the blood flowing back through his numbed fingers. He rubbed his right knee, attempting to massage some life back into it. A visitor came into the hall, and as Dunstan stood up to acknowledge him, he noticed that his newly arrived house-guest, younger than he, had a limp which was much more pronounced than when they had last met, during Dunstan’s year of exile. Dunstan embraced the other man and gestured to the seats. As he sank back into his chair, he said, “I am sorry to meet you again in such times. God forgive me for my pride, but I had hoped that when next we met, I would be welcoming you to your new church here at Worcester whilst I packed my chests and rode to Canterbury.”
His guest shuffled to a cushioned chair and spread his black robes out as he sat down. He said, “When I buried my kinsman the archbishop, I had hoped the bitter brew would be sweetened by knowing that you would succeed him. It seems that the Fairchild has thwarted you once more.”
Dunstan smiled ruefully. “Indeed. First he sends me overseas and now he sends the bishop of Winchester, not in exile, but to receive the pope’s blessing as the new archbishop.” He shook his head, still puzzling. Had he not served, prayed, answered his calling? Was the Fairchild sent by God to test him?
“Edgar would have chosen you.”
“Alas, the thing was done too swiftly. I think that the bishop has powerful friends who were standing by with an armed escort and a ship waiting in port.”
“The Lord Alvar is a friend of this bishop of Winchester, is he not?”
Dunstan’s arms tensed at the mention of the name, and a twinge pinched the top of his shoulders. “I had not heard that he was there when Winchester sailed.”
His friend smiled. “Maybe he was. Maybe he was not. But your life would be simpler, would it not, if there was no Lord Alvar and no Fairchild?”
Dunstan chuckled, despite his despondency. “Ah, yes. But where is the man who can do what God so far has not seen fit to do? Now, dearest friend, let us put our heads to thinking how we might find you a church now that you are here to stay.”
“Oh, yes. There is much to plan.”
Ramsey, East Anglia
Alfreda looked at the house-guest and tried to suppress an involuntary shudder, hoping that her revulsion would not harm her unborn babe, a brother or sister for little Leofric. The visitor had surely sprung from some nightmare, made real by devilry. He was a tall man who leaned forward, exaggerating the curvature of his neck and shoulders. His pale blue eyes shot glances around the room that seemed as sharp as any arrow point. When he moved, it was with a limp, one leg dragging slightly behind the other. Her mother, making up fireside stories for her when she was a child, could not have conjured up so hideous a being to scare the children gathered around the hearth on a winter’s evening. Alfreda hugged her arms across her body, wishing she could reach back into that childhood and snatch a moment of its warmth. In the Half-king’s day, the house at Ramsey had been filled with faces that, if they were not friendly, were at least not openly hostile. Now the Half-king was cloistered at Glastonbury, Edgar had gone and his former tutor the kindly Abbot Athelwold with him, and all those around her were pinched-faced and sour-looking, with one exception. Brandon would only have to put his tongue out to look like the puppy he resembled, and perhaps his tongue should indeed go out, the better to lap up every word the newcomer uttered. For Brandon followed the tall man at every turn, little hand gestures suggesting that he would touch the stranger’s garments if he would let him.
She knew that the man’s name was Oswald, that he was a Dane, that he was studying reforms at a monastery in Frankia, and that he was related to the late archbishop of Canterbury and had come back to England when he heard of the archbishop’s death. He had already been to York to try his luck for a position there, since he had family connections there too, and she stared at this strange and fearsome creature and wondered why such a well-connected person should be so interested in a backwater like the fenland. He was an odd choice to replace Edgar as an idol. Apparently Brandon had met Oswald at a funeral of a nobleman and brought him back to Ramsey, where Elwood had promptly appropriated him. She watched and listened, trying to understand exactly what she was witnessing.
Oswald said, “I hear what you say, Lord Elwood. But we need to hasten our work so that all religious houses follow the rules of St Benedict.”
“Dunstan and Athelwold are doing what they can…” Elwood explained to Oswald how much the other churchmen had been influencing Edgar, persuading him of the benefits that the reforms would bring, to England, and to his place in heaven. Alfreda nodded, inwardly agreeing, for she had sat many a long hour and heard Athelwold’s plans for a new Church. But this man Oswald was pushing for more. He got up and began to walk a few steps, f
irst away from Elwood, then towards him.
“I need a church of my own. Better still, a bishopric. And then it will all be done more swiftly. Left to Athelwold and Dunstan, good men though they are, it will take forever.”
“Winchester is free,” Elwood said, wincing as if he knew the offer to be as welcome as a mouldy piece of flatbread on a feast night.
Oswald’s blue eyes narrowed. “Yes, Winchester is free, because the bishop of that place has moved on. And yet he is still in the way, for in moving on, he blocks Dunstan’s path to Canterbury. And who put him there?”
“The Fairchild.”
“Yes. So everywhere we godly men turn, there is an ungodly one standing in our way. What we need is Edgar on the throne of both the English kingdoms, and Dunstan on the throne at Canterbury.”
“We have begun work on that. Edgar will be king after his brother, now that his brother has no wife.”
Oswald stopped pacing and put his head to one side, staring at Elwood. “There is a flaw in your work. We have seen that the annulment has not subdued the Fairchild; he could take it upon himself to wed again. This must not happen.”
“No, we all hope that it does not, but without an uprising…”
Oswald held up a hand, demanding silence. “There must be no uprising. Better that Edgar is grateful to us than to the weapon-men, for then he will give us what we need. Once before, there were two kings, one of Wessex and one of Mercia, and did not one die soon after taking the king-helm? Who knows what can happen, without warning?” He looked up at the roof and cupped his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “So, we must think how best we can be of use to Edgar.”
Elwood grunted. “I can answer that one straight away. Get rid of Alvar of Mercia.”
The Dane raised an eyebrow. “He vexes you, too?”
Elwood’s mouth was already open in reply and his wife knew that he had no need to rehearse this well-worn speech. “I grew up with Edgar and have always been loyal to him, even though I lost my father’s love to him. It was my idea to wrest the Fairchild from his wife, but somehow it was Alvar who was rewarded. The Fairchild gave my father’s lands to Alvar and yet Edgar has not returned them to me, not even as payment for getting rid of the Fairchild’s wife. Every time I try to get nearer to Edgar, Alvar is standing in my way.”
Oswald laid a calming hand on Elwood’s shoulder. “This upsets me. Lord Elwood, you have given me a home and shown me naught but kindness since I came to England, bereft at the death of my kin. I think that there is a way we can spear two boars with one thrust.” He led the younger man to the mead-bench and bade him sit down. Alfreda leaned to her left and strained to listen.
Oswald continued. “If Dunstan left Worcester, his church there would be empty. And where is Worcester?”
Elwood shrugged. “In Mercia.” He registered no interest, clicking his fingers for a servant to come forward and pour his guest a drink.
The Dane accepted a cup of wine, but Elwood put his hand over the rim of his own cup and Alfreda’s heart began to hammer. She would pay for that abstinence later.
Oswald spoke again. “Worcester is in Mercia, yes. And if I were to become bishop there, I could be of great help; to Edgar, to the Church, and to you.”
“Me?”
The Dane licked his lips. “Edgar loves Alvar. He thinks he needs a strong weapon-man by his side. Oh, but these warmongers have a blood-lust that can do more harm than good. If Edgar were to see…” He lowered his voice, presumably to plot the downfall of the lord of Mercia, and Alfreda could hear no more without picking up her chair and moving it nearer. She would not do it; her eavesdropping must remain unnoticed, or she would be forced to cease the practice.
Brandon had no such qualms. Having spent the duration of the previous conversation staring mournfully while his elder brother monopolised his new friend, he dragged a stool from the hearth, squeezing as close as he could to Oswald and staring at him, even when it was Elwood’s turn to speak.
Alfreda rested her hands on her belly, hoping to feel another of the tiny flutters that proved the existence of the new life within. Her love for this babe, whom she had yet to meet, was natural and instinctive; could hatred be the same? Oswald was newly arrived in England, but already his loathing for the lord Alvar was strong enough to drive him into dark corners where secrets were born. Her husband called her stupid, but she could foresee naught but strife ahead.
Chapter Four AD 959
Gloucestershire
Wilfrid yawned, stretched, and scratched as he made his way to the bake-house. An earlier start than usual saw him stumble into the gloomy building before the sun was fully up, but his widely gaping mouth was not a result of the awakening but a consequence of barely having slept at all. Joyous with pride, yet earnest in his determination not to disappoint, he pushed up his sleeves and lit the fire under the bread oven and shut the door. Later, when it had burned out, he would clean the ashes out and put the bread in to bake. Meanwhile he began to gather what he needed for the new day’s loaves, including the sour-dough reserved from the day before. An hour or so later, Herolf came in, rubbing his hands against the cool October dawn, and whistling. He stopped, his mouth still pursed in its circle, and stared at Wilfrid. Then he said, “Why are you here so early?”
Wilfrid stood back from the table and brushed his floury hands on his tunic. “I have made a start on all the extra loaves that will be needed today.”
Herolf moved towards the bench to inspect the dough. “Why do we need more than usual today?”
“Because the king is coming.”
“King Edgar is coming here?” Herolf began a dance of panic, poking the proving dough to make sure it was beginning to rise, and tidying the utensils on the table into unnecessarily neat groups.
“No, the Fairchild. He is coming from Wessex.”
Herolf released his grip on a sack of flour and laughed. “The Fairchild? Have you gone daft? Why in God’s holy name would he come here?”
Wilfrid pouted and muttered, “There you go, disbelieving me as usual.” He shrugged. “Lord Alvar must’ve invited him. One of the Fairchild’s men rode in last night and told me to make ready.”
Despite Wilfrid’s truculent insistence, Herolf said, “You must be mistaken. The steward said nothing to me. Come, let’s make a start on the…”
The sound of hoof beats turned his attention to the door and he went to stand in the opening. Wilfrid stood behind him, peering over his shoulder. “What is it?”
Herolf folded his arms. “It’s Lord Alvar. But see, you must be mistaken about the Fairchild coming because the lord is riding out.”
Wilfrid craned to see. Sure enough, Lord Alvar was riding away from the manor with, it seemed, all his men at arms. One rider peeled away from the formation after they rode through the gate, presumably, Wilfrid thought, to rally more men from the surrounding villages.
The bakers returned to their work with grudging co-operation, one grumbling about the wasted dough, one stubbornly insisting that the additional loaves would be required. By mid-morning the heat had become oppressive and they stepped outside for a rest. Wilfrid went first and Herolf followed him through the doorway and handed him one of the two drinks he had brought with him. Wilfrid took a few gulps and then wiped his hand across his mouth. “You will owe me another of those. Look.”
Emerging from a haze of kicked dust, a group of riders was approaching the gateway, the banner of the Fairchild of Wessex flapping, proclaiming their identity. The Fairchild himself rode at the front of the pack, his pale blond hair making him easily distinguishable. Just before he reached the gate, however, a rider appeared from the village road, blocking his path and causing the entourage to come to a halt. Words were exchanged and then, as Wilfrid and Herolf watched, the Fairchild turned his horse and followed the rider down the track away from the manor house.
Herolf patted Wilfrid on the shoulder. “Looks like you were right; Lord Alvar must’ve bidden him here, though I cannot thin
k why. And why has he ridden off?” He drained his cup. “Ah well, best get back to our kneading.”
Among the men who had stood in the church at Gloucester that morning, many were old enough to have witnessed four king-makings. Alvar doubted that they had ever seen one conducted so hurriedly. Even now, the bells were ringing softly. When a man was crowned king, there should be no hiding in shadows. The Fairchild of Wessex was dead and buried and only nineteen years of his life lived. Most folk said he should have cooled his grave a little more before Edgar took the king-helm to wear on his own head, and when Alvar had spoken to Edgar he was of the same mind. But between then and now, Edgar had been persuaded by persons as yet unknown, although Alvar had his suspicions, that a hasty coronation would remove any danger of civil unrest and Edgar had allowed Dunstan to place the crown on his head, but without ceremony. Dunstan, who was no longer bishop of Worcester, but was now the new archbishop of Canterbury, and had used his new powers to bar the Fairchild’s grieving widow from his funeral.
Alvar tried to shift his weight without wriggling. Edgar’s first act as king was to call him up before all others, to swear his oath as foremost earl of the realm and, standing to receive Edgar’s kiss, Alvar saw Elwood’s face, creased into such a frown it seemed his eyes might be lost forever. Alvar could not shake loose from his head two nagging thoughts: a seemingly fit and healthy nineteen-year-old king lay dead, and the bishop of Winchester, so recently appointed to Canterbury, was conveniently dead before he could receive his pallium from the pope. Elwood, an opponent of both the Fairchild and Winchester, should have been happy at the turn of events but he looked thwarted, as if his plans had gone awry.
As to what those plans might have been, Alvar could only guess, ruminating as he watched the other lords stepping forward to receive Edgar’s gifts. Why had the Fairchild been in Gloucestershire at the time of his death? Alvar’s baker was adamant that he had been ordered to prepare food for a royal visit, while his steward was unwavering in his assertion that no such directive had ever been received. The message had never reached Alvar, but someone had gone to the trouble of informing the baker so that Alvar’s claim of ignorance would seem spurious. A rumour then swiftly followed that the Fairchild had come at Alvar’s invitation. Many gave credence to this assertion, questioning why Edgar’s sworn man would invite a king of Wessex into the heart of Mercia. It seemed that they had their answer when the Fairchild was found dead, having apparently fallen from his horse. But any fingers pointing suspicion at Alvar soon had to cease their wagging, because Alvar was not in Gloucestershire at the time. And those who maintained that he contrived to take himself from the scene of the crime and leave his men to do the foul deed were silenced by the facts: Alvar was clever, perhaps, but not so clever that he could have arranged for the Welsh to begin an attack on Shrewsbury at the very same moment. And, having ridden home with the smell of battle in his nostrils, he now had a foul taste in his mouth. Elwood might well have expected to become chief earl by contriving to have Alvar executed for murder, but he did not need to murder the bishop as well. No, this was a far deeper and murkier sea of intrigue, and the ambitions of more than one man had been set to sail upon it.
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