He wiped his mouth on the napkin provided and laughed.
Her hand jerked off the table. “My lord?”
He pointed and she turned to look at the doorway, where Helmstan was standing, covered in straw and horse dung. “A horse stall is not the best place to lose one’s footing,” he said, unnecessarily. “My love, will you fetch me my…”
“Fresh breeches. Yes.” Welcoming the opportunity to leave the men to their drinking and roistering, she hurried away, sending Gytha to find Helmstan some clean clothes. Striding outside, she noticed that her steps proclaimed her anger. Well why shouldn’t she be angry, having been so easily temporarily seduced, by his reasonable behaviour, into forgetting his more usual demeanour of arrogance? But although it seemed that she had identified the source of her discomfiture, the feeling persisted, even as her footsteps slowed, and by the time she reached the weaving shed she was still confounded; firstly by his indifference to the news of her pregnancy and secondly, that his muted reaction should have been of any consequence to her.
Worcestershire
Alvar was uncomfortable in the saddle, unusually so. This morning he had hung back, allowing the rest of his men to lead the way. He had no confidence in his ability to engage in any witty word-craft, not after his poor performance in Cheshire. To receive news of Helmstan’s impending fatherhood with the dull utterance ‘Oh’ was charmless enough, but he had neglected to offer any congratulations. He already knew Káta’s opinion of him, and his actions would have done little to assuage her notion that he was haughty and over-proud. But, even if he were summoned by Saint Peter himself, he would not be able to answer for his deeds. A man would not reach out to grab the sun as it fell from the sky at night, yet Alvar felt like he had done exactly that and now sensed the loss of something that he had never owned. Four years ago he had pledged his life to Edgar, and had perhaps always understood that his duty would keep him at court or in the saddle and thus devoid of a personal life. Rarely had he acknowledged this pact, let alone questioned it. But now, like an old wound, it had begun to twinge a little. Given more time, would he have chosen a life like Helmstan’s? With every visit, it was as if he stared into the reflective mill pond and saw another world, one which could have been his. On campaign, Alvar valued Helmstan as a loyal and beloved friend. But at his friend’s home, the appeal lay in the way of life that Helmstan enjoyed, and it was more acute whenever Alvar was in Káta’s presence, when he was confronted with the benefits brought by a happy marriage.
The high summer sun seemed to melt the skin on the back of his neck as droplets of sweat found their way down inside his tunic, and he was not surprised to see a family of churls sitting under the hedgerow by the side of the road. Tilling the soil in the midday heat would send the hardiest farmer to seek shade, and Alvar’s men rode past the group of huddled figures without a downward glance. But as Alvar neared the group, he noticed the bundles of clothing, pots and pans, and bedding rolls. Tugging on the reins he brought his horse to a halt and dismounted. The man, apparently the head of this curiously displaced household, rose to his feet, placing one hand on his knee and then the other on the small of his back as he straightened up. He bowed his head. “My lord.”
Alvar’s gaze went from the man’s bony hands, to the wife who lifted hollowed cheeks into a reverent smile, to the children whose shadows cast almost skeletal shapes. He addressed the man. “You farm the land here?”
“Not any more, my lord.”
“Tell me.”
“The new bishop of Worcester has turned us off our land and out of our house.”
Alvar felt his blood warming as if to boil. The harvest looked set to be poor this year as there had been little rain in these parts. No need to have spent the summer here to see that; the parched fields told him all he needed to know. The rising anger clamped his jaw so that he almost snarled when he said, “So who is in your house now?”
“As I understand it, my lord, it is the kin of a monk who is himself able to claim some kinship to the bishop.”
“And who is your lord? Why has he not spoken to the bishop on your behalf?”
The man stood up straight and his chin jutted forward. “My lord, I might not look it but I am no churl. I am a king’s thegn. There are many of us, who once held land from the king but now find ourselves at the mercy of the bishopric. We were told that the bishop now holds jurisdiction over the land. Those who live on it were told to leave and given no redress. Many will starve.”
“Well, you shall not. Go to my house at Worcester and speak to my steward there. You and yours will be well looked after.”
Alvar rode away, all thoughts of returning to Upper Slaughter put aside once more. What in God’s name was going on? Since when were leaseholds in Worcester subject to the bishop and not to the king or the earl? He grunted. No, not in God’s name. This was not an act of God, but of His representative on earth.
Winchester
The sun was shining red and low when he reached Brock’s manor. Alvar pressed a finger to the bridge of his nose and rubbed his thumb up and down his temple. He walked his horse into the yard and a young boy ran from the kennels and stood ready to take the lord’s horse. A cook was dragging the roasting-spit away from the fire so that it could cool before being cleaned, and a kitchen-boy was walking towards the gate, his parcel of food suggesting that he was on his way to dole out sustenance to the shepherds staying overnight in their huts.
Brock ambled from his mews, calling out to the fowler who remained inside and whose answer was audible but indistinct. Brock smiled broadly at the sight of Alvar, but his expression sobered as he came nearer. “What is wrong, little brother? You look as though you have been riding with the Devil on your tail.”
Alvar was weary and had tried to shy from his thoughts during the long ride. Under Brock’s enquiring gaze he buckled and the words tumbled out. “I have been riding for days to rid myself of the smell rising from a heap of steaming shit. Its stench is fouler than a Welshman’s fart. That dried up old windle-straw, Oswald… No, wait, I must call him by his rank… The snivelling louse-scabbed bishop, has sweetened the king into giving him three hundred hides of land around Worcester. And how did he do this? By vowing to turn it into a ship-soke and promising to provide seamen to serve in Edgar’s new fleet. But this land is rich farming land so now, as if he has not already sucked enough of England into his greedy Danish mouth, he has begun to throw the folk off the land and give it to his kinfolk whom he has brought from East Anglia.” He continued to curse as the young stable-lad took his horse from him.
Brock laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “Your steed is in need of a rub down and so, I think, are you. Stop spitting your oaths and go into the hall. I will be there as soon as I have made sure that your horse gets the best stall.”
Alvar, spleen vented, sighed and smiled. The sun was a half ball of red fire. All men should be by the hearth at this hour and he turned towards the noise and warmth that beckoned from the hall.
Indoors, the fire was lively and welcoming, and folk had gathered round to begin an evening of story-telling and riddles. Overhead light flickered from cressets; the wicks sucked up oil, burning it to light up even the corners of the hall, where children yawned while they played with the dogs and tried to shrink into shadow when their mothers came close, looking to send them to bed. Alvar closed the door on the cooling dusk and, as the oak panel clattered, Brock’s wife, Swytha, spotted him and darted forward.
“You are welcome, Brother.”
He held her to his chest, kissed the top of her head and pushed a grey-blonde curl from her cheek. She stepped back, and mimed food and drink to a servant.
A little boy of about five years edged closer and disappeared behind Swytha’s skirts. Alvar pretended he had not seen him.
The boy peeped from behind the dress.
“Oh, and who is this?”
Swytha reached round and placed her hand on the boy’s back to bring him forward. “This is our
fosterling, Goodwin.”
“The bishop’s son? Winchester’s child?” Alvar squatted down to bring his face level with the youngster’s. “I am your Uncle Alvar,” he told him.
The boy reached up and placed a small warm hand inside Alvar’s.
The servant returned with bread, cheese, and ale. Alvar sat down at the long table and hoisted Goodwin onto his lap.
Swytha sat beside him. She waved her hand. “No, no, you must begin. I ate earlier with the rest of the household.”
A shout went up from the men at the gaming board. “I win again. Your throw.”
By the hearth, the harper slid his instrument from its beaver-skin bag and plucked a few notes to test the tuning against the piper’s whistle.
The servant returned and poured ale into a cup, and Alvar broke a loaf of bread. Swytha watched him and smiled.
“What is it?”
“He barely knows you, yet he does not even wriggle in your lap. You have a way with the little ones,” she said. “Is it not time you gave thought to having some of your own?”
He swallowed a mouthful of ale. “I think that if you knew which ladies of the king’s house to ask, you might hear that the lack is not for want of trying.” He laughed and sank his teeth into a chunk of cheese.
The piper began to play a lively tune and two young girls stood up to dance.
Swytha raised her voice and said, “Do not brush away my words, for that is not what I meant, as you well know. You need sons to leave your land to. Maybe your earldom, too.”
He stopped chewing and turned to look at her. The face he had known for so many years was unchanged but for the handful of grey hairs around her temple. Alvar had been six when she wed Brock. He said, “When I first met you, you were taller than me. I am a grown man and it is a long time since you named me your ‘little busy-bee’, yet still you are like a mother to me. Do not look at me so...” Alvar pulled a chunk of bread from the loaf, gave it to the boy and set him down. “Off you go and find your foster-father.” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and sighed. “I can see that you will not rest until you know my thoughts. It is true that when I look upon my brother I see how wedded life and children are good for the heart. But I cannot think of settling with a woman when the road oft-times takes me north, where I must keep the folk bound to Edgar. And now, where being away at least used to bring me some freedom to breathe, I will forever be worrying about what Oswald is doing in my lands.” Anger rekindled, he returned to his curses. “Even in your sweet hall, I can still recall the din of his foul lies…”
“You dislike him.” She smiled.
“Dislike? I loathe him. He stoops lower than a weevil crawling through dung…” He stopped and stared at her. “Ah, you were teasing. You understood me all along.”
Brock appeared, with Goodwin on his shoulders. He said, “Here is my brother, staring like a halfwit. Does your fish-eyed look mean that you have been chided by my wife after your little show of self-pity?” He slid the boy from his perch and held him in his arms. “Well now, have you done with cursing the new bishop to the everlasting heat of hell?”
Swytha dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. “Your sweet-tongued brother has me in tears with his thoughts on Oswald.”
Alvar looked from husband to wife. He said to Swytha, “Ah, yes, I nearly forgot. I must tell you what has arisen at Worcester.”
“There is no need,” Brock said. “If my lady wife has heard your thoughts on the new bishop then she does not need to learn all your new names for him.”
Swytha looked up at her husband and back to her brother-in-law. “Well, one more would not harm.”
Brock said, “If I have it right, one of the milder ones was ‘soft-arsed worm-riddled son of a Danish whore,’ but there were others.”
Alvar crossed his arms. “It is true. He is Danish.”
Brock gave the boy to Swytha. Swytha gathered him into her arms and stood up, and the little boy smiled at Alvar over her shoulder.
Alvar winked at the youngster. It was a wonder how any man could say that the boy’s existence was a sin. Yet in this new world, that was how it would be; clergy could no longer be wed, nor their offspring acknowledged.
Swytha carried Goodwin towards the stairs and swayed as she picked her way through the dancers. Alvar smiled. He patted the empty chair next to him.
Brock squeezed onto the seat, wriggled, and coughed. “You missed the witenagemot.”
“So I did. How was it?”
Brock chewed the inside of his cheek, giving his face a lopsided appearance. “It was odd. Dunstan spoke again about a second king-making. Edgar said that he had worn the king-helm long enough to be known as king, but Dunstan seemed to crave a more fulsome affair. He looked almost thwarted.”
Alvar grunted. “I am glad I was not there. Dunstan would have blamed me. And…”
They looked up as Brock’s eldest son Bridd walked over to the hearth, cradling a puppy. Brock smiled. “He will not leave that hound. As soon as it was weaned he would have it for his own. Still, it is a sweet thing.”
Bridd lay down by the fire and let the puppy jump onto his stomach. The harper flicked the young dog’s soft ears and two thegns leaned over from the table to pet it.
Brock’s scop stood up and gathered the children to him. He sat in an armchair on the other side of the hearth and allowed the children to sit on his knee, weathering the stern looks from the mothers who stood with their arms folded and their feet tapping.
Brock laughed. “They will have a tale before bedtime, come what may. Now, what were you going to say?”
Alvar sighed. It was time to concede. “No, I will not say it, for it was about Oswald and I understand that I am forbidden now to speak his name in your hall.” He winked at Bridd, slapped Brock on the thigh and stood up. He set off towards the door and thence to the latrine. Over his shoulder he said, “But he is still a turd.”
Glastonbury
The abbey at Glastonbury welcomed benefactors, visitors, and weary travellers, and Alvar was known to the novice at the gate as all three. His horse was taken to be fed and watered and a messenger dispatched to find the abbot. In the church building, extended during Dunstan’s tenure as abbot to include a tower and aisles, Alvar knelt, crossed himself, and said a short prayer before making his way to the rectangular cloister, another concept introduced by Dunstan from the continent.
He sat on a stone seat and, to loosen his muscles after the hard journey, he breathed in and stretched out his legs. He closed his eyes against the sun. In the quiet between nones and vespers, he heard only the low hum of a bee. He focused on the warmth on his eyelids and played for a few moments, opening his eyes just a fraction so that he could see only light. Without any defined images, his mind was free to give him a vision of a golden-haired woman. She smiled and his nose twitched to recall the soothing smell of lavender released with every shake of the head. He sat upright and opened his eyes fully. She had not been smiling when he left her hall. He leaned forward and scratched his side. She should be happy. ‘I am with child; that is all.’ He recalled how his inner being had reeled as if from a powerful blow. He frowned and the images faded as he heard the shuffle of sandals across the courtyard. The abbot came forward in greeting and opened his arms wide to indicate that he had brought company. The Half-king came towards him, arms outstretched.
“You have been away from home for a while.”
Alvar put a hand to his stubbly jaw and rubbed it. “I must be a sorry sight. I have been riding hard for some days now.”
“If you seek the king you have missed him, for he left Cheddar last Friday.”
“I wonder why I bother to keep a house of my own, so rarely do I see it. My fate is to ride the width and breadth of the land, chasing Edgar.” Alvar paused, remembering that whilst the greeting might have been friendly, this man was the father of one of his sworn enemies. “But do not think me an ingrate. I often rest here on my way between my brother’s house and my own lands.”
The abbot bowed and moved off and the Half-king smiled. “To rest? Or to see where your gold might next be of some use to the abbot? Since I have been living here I have heard many tales of your generosity towards this abbey. Indeed, the only man whom they praise as much as you is Dunstan. If only you and he could have found a way to… Never mind; let me say merely that I might have been too hasty in my condemnation.” He touched Alvar’s arm. “You look full of woe, Lord Alvar. Walk with me in the gardens and tell me your tale. Once, I was a man who could mend many things. Perhaps I still have a small bit of thread to stitch with.”
The Half-king took him through the herb garden by the monks’ kitchens and listened with, “I see,” and, “Yes, I had heard it was so.”
The monks tending the plants remained on their knees and kept their heads down, making no apology for their presence, yet respecting the noblemen’s privacy. The walled garden was small, but as they turned the last corner Alvar said, “And that is my tale; it does not take so long in the telling the second time.”
The Half-king smiled. “I think the tale you have given me might be tamer than the one that others have heard.”
“The thing that irks is that all this was done while I was away doing the king’s business in Northumbria.”
“I do not envy you. And I am glad I came to this place before Oswald turned up at my hall at Ramsey. Tread lightly when you walk near the bishop; I think he is not to be trusted. But as Edgar’s foster-father I had many years to learn how his mind works, and he will use Oswald if he can. Edgar will do whatever he feels he needs to, and make use of whomever he needs to. If a deed is done when your back is turned, it does not mean that Edgar thinks to betray you.”
Alvar gave a wry laugh. He was already familiar with Edgar’s lack of scruples. He pushed open the gate for the Half-king and followed him down the path to the pond.
Alvar the Kingmaker Page 12
