Alvar the Kingmaker

by Annie Whitehead

  Moving from the chapel to the timber building alongside it, Alvar blew on his hands and stood aside to allow his brother Brock to enter the hall. Alvar stepped inside and stamped his feet. After the stone floor of the chapel he was grateful for the familiar springy luxury of the wooden floorboards. Looking around, he noted with satisfaction that the hall was bedecked in the finest manner. This hall was the king’s, but it lay in the heart of Mercia, within Alvar’s area of authority. Gold and silver plate had already been laid on the tables, the candles in the gold candlesticks were newly lit and the bread baskets were stacked full almost to overflowing. Alvar nodded at the steward and smiled his approval. He took a jug of wine from a serving-boy, waved him away and filled two cups on the table. He handed one of the drinks to Brock. “However it was done, I think we now have a king who is worthy of the name.”

  Brock murmured an agreement and then looked at Alvar as if hearing a second time. “However it was done? What? You cannot believe that the archbishop...”

  Alvar looked behind him and set the jug down on a side table. “Ah yes, the new archbishop; what are we to think of him? How much did Dunstan mourn the poor bishop of Winchester before he made a nest for himself at Canterbury?”

  “Now brother, be fair. None can be held answerable for Winchester’s untimely death.” Brock sipped his drink. A group of thegns passed by on their way to the mead-benches and he held his cup high to avoid spilling the contents. He said, “Who could have known that the weather would take the man’s life like that as he rode to seek his blessing from the pope?”

  Alvar moved the gaming pieces around in his mind. “If that is truly what happened. Many things could befall a man who is far from home and far from friends.” He shook his head. He would move those pieces around again at a later stage. He smiled. “It was kind of you to take Winchester’s child as your foster-son.” Alvar picked up the wine and gestured with the jug, but Brock shook his head. Alvar refilled his own cup.

  Brock shrugged the compliment off. “Any man would do this for a friend.”

  “I cannot see that I would ever find it within me to take on another man’s son.” The diners began to take their seats and the noise subsided. Alvar straightened up. He waved the jug again. “Another? No?” He filled his own cup and said, “And you are not merely any man. The Fairchild’s steward becomes earl of Hampshire and thus Edgar has mended the rift with Wessex.”

  “Indeed he has. And he has shown how much he values our kin.” Brock chuckled; his head went back and the light from the fire showed flecks of yellow in his grey stripe. He touched his new arm ring, placed there as he knelt to receive the earldom of Hampshire. “Do you see who else Edgar keeps near to him?”

  Alvar turned. He mouthed as he counted the men who surrounded the king. “I have never seen so many bishops, abbots, monks and priests outside a church. Who is the one sitting next to Dunstan who looks like a dried up old stick?”

  Brock turned to the wall and Alvar leaned in to hear his words. “That is Oswald, a Dane from East Anglia and nephew to the old archbishop. He has been in Frankia for some years, where he took the monk’s oath. When he sailed home to find that his uncle had died, he took himself off to the archbishop at York, another of his kinsmen.”

  Alvar sniffed. “So why is he here and not in York?”

  Brock said, “He met Elwood’s little brother, who took him back to Ramsey. From there he had a path straight to the king.”

  The Dane, alone among the gathering on the dais, looked straight ahead and did not converse with his neighbours. He was probably a tall man, but his back was hunched. His black garb hung off the narrow slope of his shoulders and his small blue eyes flashed rapid blinks as he stared out into the hall. Something caught his attention and he put his head to one side. The darting gaze stilled and he righted his head to blink at the middle distance.

  Alvar wrinkled his nose. “And Edgar will have a straight path to heaven, with all those priests speaking to God on his behalf.”

  Brock nodded. “And, since churchmen are now forbidden to wed, they will not be like trees; they will not sow their seed. If you recall, it was the Fairchild who first allowed men to bequeath earldoms to their sons. Edgar looks as though he seeks to offset the strength of the earls by giving the churchmen as many seats on the bench.”

  Alvar cocked his head. “You might be right.” Although with relatives scattered throughout the Church, it looked as if Oswald had his own deep-rooted kinship. Alvar’s tongue moved slowly across his top lip as he surveyed the group huddled around Edgar. He smiled. If the lad had learned to keep a balance, then he was learning well. He would not take it to heart if Edgar sought to lean less heavily on the old kinships, for at least he was learning where the Fairchild had not. “I would rather have my place at Edgar’s side through merit and not mere kinship. But, having won Mercia for him, I wonder why then does Edgar still keep me near?”

  Edgar stood up and walked towards them. Brock patted his younger brother on the arm. “I think, humble youngster, that you are about to find out.” He stepped aside, nodding to the king.

  Edgar reached up to rest his hand on Alvar’s shoulder, propelling him with minimal pressure to the far end of the hall, where shadows aided inconspicuousness.

  “Lord Alvar, before we eat, I would like to hear your thoughts on something which has been troubling me. In a word: Northumbria. They did not oppose my kingship but how do I keep them loyal?” He jerked his head in a nod towards the dais. “My learned priests have no answer other than to build more churches. I will pay my foreign boatmen to ensure that the Northumbrians are not tempted to welcome any more Vikings to their remote shores. But I am not dim-witted enough to think that fear will keep them loyal. The fleet might be my eye in the north, but I need more.”

  Alvar scratched his ear. They would certainly need to tread carefully. Many who lived in Northumbria had Danish blood in their veins; they spoke another language and did not think of themselves yet as English. He said, “It is only in living memory that the Viking king was driven from York and the two Northumbrian kingdoms were brought back together. If we could build upon this, if the two halves of Northumbria could be made to feel whole, and be made to feel English… Aside from sending a fleet to threaten, you must send a hand in friendship. What if I were to go there, make what friends I can amongst those who will matter, and speak on your behalf?”

  The king nodded. “I should like that; leave as soon as you can.”

  Elwood of East Anglia had been watching them as they huddled in the shadows and now he made his way over to the end of the hall, his brows drawn together in an expression of indignant curiosity. Alvar’s inner child rose up and he struggled to refrain from asking Edgar why he kept such a sour-lipped lump-head in his inner circle. Instead he said, “He is rich beyond reckoning, he is foster-brother to the king of the English and yet he scowls. What is it then; does his wife look like a shovel?”

  “No, she does not.” Edgar steered Alvar back towards the centre of the hall, so that they approached Elwood as he came towards them. The king lifted his lips in a rare smile. “Lady Alfreda is comely indeed.” He saved his next comment until they reached Elwood. “And I have told my foster-brother many times that one day I shall have her off him.”

  The lord of Ramsey clenched his fists, but his arms hung impotently at his sides. His lip curled in a sneer. “I hear that you have not yet taken a wife, Alvar?”

  Alvar hiccupped. “Never found a woman I wished to keep,” he said. He looked down and made a study of the dried herbs and straw covering the floorboards. He felt a squeeze on his arm, announcing Edgar’s departure. When he looked up, the East Anglian was smirking at him. The lie had not convinced.

  Elwood said, “Those who make the loudest din oft-times shout louder than they need to. Some might say Lord Alvar wishes to hide the truth, which is that no woman will have him.”

  Alvar swept his arms wide and let them fall in an act of feigned indifference. “You have
it, my lord. The truth is that I while away too many days drinking and whoring to find me a wife.”

  Elwood took a step nearer and his mouth stretched into a snarl. “You besmirch the good name of your kin. It is a wonder to me why Edgar keeps you so near to his side. You are a drunken halfwit.”

  Alvar said. “No, I am merely half drunk. So is almost every other man in this hall; what is wrong with that? At least I do not fear to be in my cups, for what kind of a lord will not share the drinking horn with his men? As to my being a halfwit…” He held the next words back, letting his anger rise up from his belly. For three years he had endured this man’s disdain, nay odium, with never an explanation offered. If his crime was nothing more than his long ago severed connection to the Fairchild, well, had he not proved subsequently his loyalty to Edgar? And had Edgar not charged him with a diplomatic mission? Perhaps it was time to stop doubting his abilities. And to give credence to the growing suspicion that Elwood was driven purely by envy. “You can rest easy, knowing that Edgar is all yours for a time, for he has asked me to go to Northumbria on his behalf.” He echoed Elwood’s movement, and stepped closer. “You see, Edgar owes you, but he needs me.”

  Alvar was sitting next to his brother, with the Greybeard of Chester and a group of lesser thegns, who, when they were not pouring drinks for their lords, were firing playful punches at each other. Alvar hoisted his legs up on a bench, one foot crossed over the other. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and slopped ale and he laughed along with the others as an ale-soaked napkin flew across the table and landed on the head of a Worcester thegn. Alvar took a sip from his cup and put his free hand up to the back of his neck. He shivered and rubbed his fingers across the gap between his hair and the neckline of his tunic. He turned his head a little. Edgar and Dunstan, still seated on the dais, were staring at him. Edgar’s head was tilted forward while Dunstan whispered with the side of his mouth. Edgar nodded once or twice, but more often cocked his head one way and then the other, as if unsure whether he agreed with what Dunstan said. Alvar held out his cup as a serving-girl walked by with a flask of wine. “I will have a drink before you take that to the ladies,” he said. “No, better yet, leave us the flask.” He filled Brock’s cup and said, “Come, let us drink to the Fairchild, that he might lie still in his grave, and then to the memory of Winchester.” Alvar chinked his cup against his brother’s, they drank the toast to the Fairchild, and Alvar poured another drink for them both.

  Brock said, “He was a good man. Winchester would have made a good archbishop.”

  Up on the dais, Edgar lifted a loaf and broke it in two. He tore a chunk off with his teeth, but the piece was too large and he chewed with it sticking out until there was room for him to swallow. Oswald the Dane picked up a small crust, nibbled a little from the outside and put the rest back on his plate. He lifted a lap-cloth and dabbed it unnecessarily around his dry lips. Dunstan batted his hand at a servant who tried to replenish his plate. Yes, Winchester would have made a fine archbishop and Dunstan had much to prove. But it made no sense. Alvar moved the pieces around his mind again but could not put Dunstan into the role of murderer. Once, he had played at the gaming board with his young nephew and neither of them had realised immediately that one of the pieces had fallen on the floor. There came a point when they noticed that the game was incomplete but could not straight away fathom why. Alvar had the same feeling now.

  On the other side of the king-seat another two men were now looking at him, but in their case Alvar felt as if he should duck his head to avoid the looks of loathing being fired at him like elvish arrows. Oswald the Dane was talking and pointing as if he needed confirmation of an identity and Elwood of East Anglia scowled as he jerked his head in Alvar’s direction and grumbled into the ear of the Dane.

  Brock kicked Alvar’s foot. “Brother, are you still with us, or has your mind wandered for good this time?”

  Alvar did not turn, but raised his voice above the giggles of the others and said, “I was wondering who this Dane might really be, who is all at once such a friend to East Anglia.”

  Oswald stood up and left the dais.

  Brock said, “Why not ask him then? He seems to be coming this way.”

  As Oswald walked towards the benches, one leg dragged where the other lifted, causing his head to bob up and down with each step.

  Alvar said, “Should I feel like a worm that is about to be picked from the earth, do you think?”

  Brock laughed. “I see what you mean; he does walk a little like a bird. But is he a harmless wren or a murderous crow?”

  Alvar laughed, but there was something in Brock’s words that made him wonder. There was no time to muse on it, though, because Oswald had arrived in front of them and was standing silently, presumably in expectation of a greeting.

  Alvar shrugged, put his feet on the floor and sat up straight. He held his hand out and gestured towards the now vacant bench.

  Oswald bowed his head and sat down. He arranged his black robes around him and lifted his sleeves clear of the sticky table-top. “It is time that godliness was brought back to this land.” His voice was as tuneless as the dull strike of a blunt sword.

  Alvar, annoyed by the lack of preamble, objected. “Who are you to speak to me thus? I do not know you.”

  Oswald blinked at him. “But I know you. You are the one who has been speaking lewdly to our lord of East Anglia.”

  Alvar drummed his fingers on the table. “So that is why Elwood was bleating in your ear.” To Brock he said, “I do not know whether to be wroth, or to laugh.” He turned back to the newcomer. “I spoke light-heartedly about whoring. It was not meant, and it was but one word. The only mystery is why he ran to you with his tale of woe.”

  Oswald ignored the slur on his social status. “Whispered words will always find an ear.” He nodded back towards the direction of the dais. “The king listens well and wisely to the words of the archbishop of Canterbury.”

  Alvar yawned. “Dunstan can clatter on all day about the Church for all I care. Why should it trouble me?”

  The Dane’s staccato voice cut through the end of his sentence. “I will tell you. The Church can give Edgar what you cannot.”

  By the hearth, near the sleeping dogs, a drunken Northumbrian balanced a full wine cup on his head, only for a Gloucester thegn to knock it off and into his lap. The two jumped up and began a play-fight. Around them their friends took sides and spurred them on with yells and whoops. The hounds, woken by the commotion, joined in, yelping and leaping between the men and whimpering when they got too close.

  The Dane spoke as if there had been no interruption. “You helped Edgar to the throne. But at any time you could leave your king for another. Is that not what you meant when you said that Edgar should need his lords and not owe them?”

  “Oh for God’s…” How could Elwood have been so stupid as to take his words and twist them so? Did he really think that Alvar was planning revolt?

  The newcomer continued. “You will be wasting your time and your horses riding to Northumbria. The only way to truly bind men to the kingdom is through a strong Church. Every day, I tell God what needs to be. When the Church owns land, all are true to king and God.”

  “You tell God?” Alvar rolled his eyes.

  Oswald blinked and his eyes narrowed. “Kingship is naught without godliness. The Church needs more land to be strong, in order to make the king strong.”

  “And you are the man to do this? You nod your head at me but you are naught. What are you, aside from forgetting who I am and how you should speak to me?”

  “I do not forget who you are. You are a proud man; too proud. As for who I am, let me ask you this. Dunstan is now at Canterbury and Worcester is free. Who do you think will be bishop there now?”

  Oswald gave his little bob of a nod and stood up. He bowed, not low, and hobbled off.

  Brock let out a low whistle. “Do you think, brother, that he was threatening you?”

  Alvar too
k a long drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grunted. “He does not frighten me. He might become bishop of Worcester but those are my lands. I will look after my folk there and as long as he does not get in my way I will not tread on him. At least in a bishop’s garb he will look less like a crow.”

  He reached for the ale and laughed at the continuing ribaldry, determined not to let the foreigner’s ill-manners detract from his enjoyment of the evening. But when a severely inebriated thegn produced a gaming board, Alvar’s thoughts began to wander once more. The diocese of Worcester, in the very heart of Mercia, was wealthy and well-endowed. And now, suddenly, it was vacant and a Danish newcomer was about to walk into the bishopric. Oswald had made his way back to the dais and resumed conversation with Elwood and now the pieces sat neatly on the board. A huge wave had been called forth to wash away all vestiges of the Fairchild’s reign, and when it receded, Dunstan was left sitting on the throne at Canterbury, while Oswald, great friend of East Anglia, was hobbling his way to Worcester and Elwood… Alvar thought back to the murderous looks he had received when Edgar had confirmed him leading earl. Elwood’s ambition had not yet been realised. Little wonder then that the man’s face looked as though he had been hit by the flat of a tree-wright’s axe. He was the only one who had not profited from the deaths of two men; but Oswald had revealed himself as evil, and if Dunstan was not complicit, then at the very least he was a steaming hypocrite. And never again would Alvar apologise for doing his duty to his king.