The older man said, “Edgar grew up with my sons, but he is a stronger man than any of them. Elwood is a bitter man and that is my fault, but Brandon was the ivy to Edgar’s tree, and he was lost when Edgar went to London. If he has wound himself onto Oswald’s robes then it will take a keen blade to loosen him. They grew up with Edgar, but he favours you, and for that you have earned their hatred.” He patted Alvar on the back. “But it is not all grim news. Last week a monk came from Abingdon with words of greeting to me and mine from our old friend Abbot Athelwold.”
As they walked, the Half-king spoke at length, evidently glad for the company, and Alvar wondered how often any of his sons came to visit.
“And he sent me a gift of two books, Hucbald’s De Harmonica Institutione and King Alfred’s translation of Pope Gregory’s Cura Pastoralis. I knew of Alfred’s work, but not the other. Athelwold is keen that I should learn of this monk who wrote about music, but I confess it is not to my taste.”
“At least Athelwold keeps his head in his books. A holy man’s thoughts should not tilt too much towards earthly things. Dunstan wants to bring the kingdom together as one under God, but the English speak with more than one tongue, and put great faith in the old folk-ways.” Alvar bent to scratch an itch and adjusted his leg-binding, and then stood up and stretched his back. “And as for Oswald, how does it please God to throw those who till the soil off their lands?” He was unaware of his clenched fist until the Half-king laid a hand on his arm.
“Come,” the older man said, “I will show you the bees and the winery, though I think I know which one will better lift your mood.”
Chapter Six AD962
Cheshire
“You should not even think of stepping out today; it is too cold. On days like this the flocks are in their pens and the shepherds bide in their huts. Learn from them.”
Káta put down the loaf of bread. “Was it Leofsige who told you I was in here?” She turned and leaned her bottom against the cook-house table. “I am not ill; I am with child.”
Helmstan stepped forward and covered her shoulders with his hands. He bent his head so that his gaze could meet hers. “You must take care. After the last time…”
“And you must not worry. The women have told me that all the spewing was a good thing, for it means that the bairn is set fast. I often feel him kicking when I am on my errands…” She clamped her mouth shut, but too late. She looked down at the floor and wriggled away from his grip.
“My love,” he ducked from the herbs hanging from the roof and followed her round the table, “I already knew that you have been out every day in this bad weather.”
Káta looked at Gytha, standing by the wall. The older woman stared at the floor. “Hmm,” Káta said, “I wonder who told you.” She turned back to her husband. “It has not been that bad.”
“No? Let me see…” Helmstan put his finger to his chin in an exaggerated gesture. “The Yuletide snow was still lying thick on the ground at lambing time, and Burgred told me that the lambs born overnight were freezing to death. Now the worry is that the seeds might not grow up through the frozen ground. Yet still you go on your rounds?”
Káta folded her arms. “You are wrong. There have been sunny days.” She cast her mind back. One bright day, she and Gytha had scrambled up the slope past the church but yes, they had been caught in a shower and the ground froze again straight afterwards. The following day brought a cloudless sky, but even in the late afternoon with the sun at their backs, it had shone on blue-white frost which clung to the slopes, and the ground under their feet remained rutted and frozen. February had brought rain, with a wind so strong that it made their eyes water and the paths, saturated by all the sudden water, became all but unusable. She smiled and clapped her hands. “There was one time when I sent Gytha out by herself and it must have been sunny, because I remember that the gate was steaming as the sun dried the rain off the wood and there was a rainbow…” But then the snow had come again. It had begun as a few flurries, but as the day progressed the flakes grew larger, until by noon the fields were devoid of all contours as the flat light reflected off the blanket of snow and levelled the landscape. He was right; it had been a harsh, prolonged winter, but that only meant that there was a greater need to distribute what little food they had.
He folded his arms. “So, if Gytha can be sent alone, then you do not need to go out yourself?”
She opened her mouth and shut it again. He looked so triumphant that it put her in mind of the cats who licked their lips with satisfaction when the dairy maids left the lids off the milk buckets and inadvertently left them a treat to steal. She pointed a finger at him. “Do not smirk. It makes you look old.”
He lifted her hand to his mouth and brushed a kiss across her fingers. “I might be older than you, my love, but I am right. Now, will you heed my words and stay at home?”
“Oh, if it will soothe your mind.” She shrugged off her cloak. “Gytha, come take the bread and fetch the salted meat and cheese. You must take enough for all those who have none left.” She turned to examine her store of dried herbs, ticking them off on her fingers. “Chervil, dill, feverfew, oh and have we peppercorns and garlic?”
Gytha put the last of the bread into the baskets and scanned the table near the door. “Yes, Lady,” she said, and left for the dairy.
Helmstan moved up behind Káta and put his arms around her waist as far as they would reach. He nestled his mouth near her hair and said, “Thank you, my love. I would not rest for worrying about you.”
She turned round and moved in as close as her belly would allow. She reached up to kiss him.
“I spoke only out of love for you.” He patted her stomach. “Both of you.”
With her arms around his neck, she rested her heaviness against his body. He put his hand to her cheek. Someone out in the yard walked across the doorway and as the shadow passed across her face she found herself wondering, as she occasionally did, about the feel on her skin of another, more slender-fingered hand. She kissed Helmstan, hard and quickly. “I have work to do, Husband.”
It was not until the middle of March that the rains came in earnest to melt the snows, but it remained cold, so that walking became a struggle over slippery ice. Káta, already confined within the boundary fence of the manor, was forced to stay indoors for a week, waiting for the thaw proper. She watched Gytha go out and welcomed her back as she stamped the slush off her shoes.
“Gytha, I have been penned in for seven days. I need to walk; I cannot say why, but I know I must not keep still today.”
Gytha nodded. “Some say it is like this when the bairn is ready to come. Where is Lord Helmstan?”
Káta stopped pacing. “He is with the shoe-smith in the horse stalls. I do not want him to think that I have gone against his wishes but…”
“Come then, Lady. It is not so bad; the sne, sorry, snow, has nearly melted away. And young Haward is sick again. Maybe you can make him feel better?”
Káta stepped outside and stood in front of the doorway. She lifted her cheeks and breathed in the sweet, odourless air until her nostrils tingled from the cold and she was forced to breathe through her mouth. “I feel a little better now.”
But she found little springtime cheer. Three lambs, born overnight, lay dead in the fields, and on the path in front of the woods a chaffinch was pecking at a lump on the ground. When they got closer, it flew away. Káta put her hands up and sucked in a breath. “Oh, Gytha, it was eating another of its own kind.”
Gytha shrugged. “It has been cold. It is not only the folk who feel it.”
Káta blew on her hands. “It was sad to see his passing, but I thank God that we buried only old Seaxferth last month and none of the children. I see they have been busy, though, for all that they are near starving.” In the far end of Burgred’s field, the youngsters’ snow sculptures were standing, still upright, but less defined. On the ground the remains of the decoration, sticks for limbs and an old cap, were lying where they had fallen after the
thaw released them from the statues. Káta clapped her hands. “These are wonderful. Did you give them that?”
Gytha giggled, picked up the cap and stuffed it into her basket. “Yes, Lady, I helped to build them.” She stopped laughing when her mistress gasped. “You should not bend over like that, Lady; what are you doing? Oh, I see. Is it broken?”
Káta’s brooch had fallen onto the path, and now she rubbed the mud from it and turned it over to examine the clasp. “No, I think not. Bad enough that it should unfasten, but worse yet that I then trod on it.” She inhaled sharply. “Oh, now I have pricked my finger.”
Gytha pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “Or is it elf-shot, Lady?”
Káta squeezed the blood and sucked her finger. “What? Oh Gytha, you must not tease. Young Haward was earnest in his belief that the elves had pricked him with their little arrows.”
“So will you leave meat on Elfshill as payment for them to take away his aches?”
Káta smiled. “No. Why would the elves have any reason to be wroth with one as small as Haward? The brew I gave him should be enough to ease his bellyache.”
Gytha counted them off on her fingers and grimaced. “Wormwood, henbane, bishop’s wort; a good thing you put fennel in to make it sweeter. I think I would retch on it.”
Káta gave the smile that Gytha was expecting, but she continued to rub at the scratches on the brooch, visible now that the mud had been cleaned. It could have been worse; the ground was slushy enough to swallow it forever. A gift from Helmstan, brought back from a recent visit to London, it was the only one she had which was made in such a way. She stroked the enamel. “I will see if Grim can shine it for me. We could go past the smithy on our way home. I… Oh.”
“Lady?”
Káta stared at the ground, where a small patch of snow was dissolving in the warm liquid trickling down her legs. “Gytha, should there be blood in the waters?”
Gytha put down her basket and linked her arm through Káta’s. She steered her back along the path to Ashleigh. As Káta stepped through the gateway into the yard her womb tightened and she gasped and put a hand to her belly. Gytha put her free arm around her lady’s back and guided her towards the hall. She shouted to Siflæd in the bake-house. “Siflæd, look lively. Lady Káta needs our help.”
London
The last time Alfreda had packed her chests for travelling was when she left her father’s estates in Devon to journey to East Anglia, a bride at sixteen. Since then, she had been no further than the various houses of her husband and his kin, the most frequent of the visits being to Huntingdon, Ipswich, and Bedford. It was her husband who told her that she may accompany him, but surely the trip to London was a gift from God. And as she had whirled about her bower, selecting clothes suitable for appearances at the king’s court, she knew that God gave naught for free, and her giddy thrill was sobered by the knowledge that her sons must remain at home with their nurse.
The separation had been fretful, but the mounting sensation of freedom had increased with every mile of the journey as they left behind the dank wet swamps of the fenland and progressed into the land of the old East Saxons and finally to London. The big skies of the flatlands shrank behind the buildings of the town, but Alfreda had never felt so unfettered.
But it was her first and last glimpse of cosmopolitan life. For five weeks she had been cooped in the house that her husband used when in London, a grand building with a whole upper floor, to which he returned at the end of the day’s business, and from which he left her every morning. And here, as elsewhere, she learned to turn a haughty cheek from the stares of pity from the household servants who learned very quickly the nature of the lord’s temper. With no estate lands to wander and no weaving sheds to offer occupation and distraction, she had nothing to do but sew. Now, the incarceration was all the more bitter, for Elwood had fallen prey to the plague which, she was told by a lucky serving-girl who was allowed outside, was sweeping through London faster than a Viking fleet could sail up the Thames. Instead of spending the day alone with her thoughts and nursing her bruises, she was forced to minister to her abuser, who, whilst he could no longer use his strength against her, was still a challenging patient. In his lucid moments he threw plenty of insults and when gripped by the fever, he gave her no choice but to stay by his side, pressing cool cloths to his head and stripping or covering him, depending on whether he was sweating or shivering. In rare moments of quiet, she would apologise to God for wishing herself ill, that she might die and make her escape to a better place.
Now, as if to punish her further, He sent an unnaturally warm evening and while her husband lay shivering in his bed, she lay on her cot and flung the covers down to her ankles. Lifting her linen shift, she wafted it in an attempt to fan some cool air onto her body. The shutter was open and the sound from the street teased her, carrying the laughter of those who had been whiling away their evening in the drinking hall. London folk were not tied to the land but to the tides and could often afford to stay out of their beds long after sundown. Some of the shrieks wafting up gave the impression that many were destined for a bed other than their own and Alfreda tried not to listen, knowing that envy would send her even further from sleep.
The laughter stopped abruptly though, and the chatter turned into enquiries, with the conversation no longer contained within the small groups, but exchanged with others across the street. Detecting consternation in the raised voices, Alfreda left her sweat-soaked mattress and went to the window. Out on the street, folk had huddled into groups and many were pointing at the high ground towards the church of St Paul. Did she hear the word before she sensed the heat; did she detect the thick stench before she saw the flames? Or did her senses receive all the information at the same time as a drunk came running past the window shouting “Fire!”?
Now the only sound to be heard was that of panic. Bundles were thrown out of windows, hastily clad servants ran from the houses, and horses, mules and cows all emitted the same bestial scream of terror. Alfreda was aware only that she was oddly calm and was able to think for a while about which gown she should put on. She turned back into the room, trying to remember which chest contained her green silk kirtle. She walked over to the corner and lifted the lid of the largest chest. Slipping the dress over her head she turned to the rasping sound emanating from somewhere under the bedclothes.
“Wh… What is it?” Elwood, still shivering, tried to raise himself up on one elbow, but fell back.
Alfreda crossed the room once more, pulled the shutter tight against the window space and said, “It is naught. Some drunks, that is all.”
She made her unhurried way down the stairs and walked through the ground floor. Every bench was empty, there were no hounds left by the fire. The servants had needed no prompting to get out before the flames came licking at the walls. She stepped out into the street. She stood for a moment, wondering where she should go, before deciding merely to follow the crowd, away from the conflagration and, she presumed, towards the river. A man approached her and pointed up at the first floor of her house.
“Lady, the fire is nearly upon us. Is anyone still in the house?”
Alfreda cast a perfunctory glance back towards her recent prison and then looked at the man. In a voice that sounded very far away, as if it were not her own, she said, “No”, before she picked up her skirts and walked up the street, hurrying until she caught up and became just another one of the crowd.
Winchester
Death always stalked nearby. Though it was many years since any Englishman had died at the hands of the Vikings, famine and sickness were ever present. Churchmen, with food rents still paid to them, even in times of hardship, fared well during periods of pestilence, safe from elf-shot behind their monastery and minster walls. Noblemen, too, usually remained well-nourished enough to fight off the diseases which carried off the old, the weak and the very young. The news that the latest outbreak had claimed a victim in Elwood of Ramsey had set tongues cla
cking throughout Edgar’s court. Rumours abounded, but the predominant one was that his servants had abandoned him and, left alone, weak from the plague, he was unable to escape the fire. But if the lord of Mercia’s face was sombre-set, it was not because of grief. Edgar had explained his reasons for choosing Ramsey’s successor but, whilst Alvar understood the thought process, he saw no reason to pretend happiness. To his complaint that there should be a much less suggestible man in charge of such a large area as East Anglia, Edgar had merely shrugged. ‘I owe them.’
And then there was the baby. Despite Dunstan’s initial protestations, Edgar had helped himself to the lady Wulfreda, removing her from the nunnery before she managed to dedicate herself to Christ, and then ruining her prospects of returning to the convent by promptly impregnating her. Dunstan, who had so publicly denounced the Fairchild for debauchery, had sanctioned this union and declared the child to be throne-worthy. Alvar had been right to suspect the archbishop of harbouring political ambitions; Dunstan had served two martial kings before Edgar and his brother, and every day he appeared to be less the naïve cleric and more the shrewd statesman. Indeed, he had already shown that he would use murder to get his own way if necessary. The sordid murder plot had not produced the desired outcomes, so to push on with their reforms the churchmen now had no recourse but to retain Edgar’s favour. Thus Edgar was forgiven and allowed to keep his nun, and Alvar could only shake his head at the hypocrisy of men who made a pastime of denigrating men such as himself. He smiled mirthlessly, for Edgar, meanwhile, was never one to dissemble, recognising the value of a mutually beneficial contract and acknowledging that a fee must be paid. Alvar marched across the enclosure, Edgar’s words ringing still in his ears. ‘My brother upset the Church and look where it got him. I cannot risk their ire. Dunstan is my confessor; he has blessed my child and is content. He might even forget past hurts if he is not upset again. I cannot call off his hound, so I have thrown Oswald a bone. We must all do with this what we can.’
Alvar the Kingmaker Page 13
