Alvar the Kingmaker

by Annie Whitehead

  “Shall we turn west and go by way of Cheshire?”

  He was shaken from his reverie as abruptly as when the cockerel shouted him from his slumber. “What? No, there is naught to be gained from going that way. We will keep to this road. South of Dinnington we will go west, into the Corringham wapentake, cross the river at East Ferry and then on to Lincoln. From there we have a straight ride down the old Ermine Street to London.” Why had he been so quick to demur? And why was the notion of going to Cheshire the more repugnant for having broken into his thoughts about Alfreda? He fixed his gaze on the road ahead and contrived to turn his mind to more mundane matters.

  They passed from the cleared land of the hamlet and lost the light of the sun when the path took them towards a wood, where the trees on the approach were taller and more closely spaced. Further into the wood, the temperature dropped. The path became less easy to follow and Alvar tried to remember from his last journey south roughly how long it would be before they emerged into the bright heat of the day once more. The track narrowed still further and the riders had no choice but to go forward in a single column. Alvar began to feel a sense of unease which had not troubled him when he first came this way. He leaned out first left and then right from his saddle, listening.

  Behind him, Beorn said, “What is it?”

  Alvar shook his head. “Naught. I thought that maybe…”

  The distinctive song of the spear ended with a dull thud as the point penetrated a tree trunk six feet in front and to the right of him. On or off the battlefield, in or out of the shield wall, the spear throw always meant the same thing: the fight is on. Alvar leaped from the saddle, pulling his spear from its bindings and ducking down by the horse’s flank. Crouching, he reached up with his free hand, twisted his shield from its resting place on the back of his shoulder, and brought it to a defensive position in front of his body. He craned his neck to see if Beorn and the others in their group were similarly prepared. Beorn had mirrored his every move and remained in a squat, his long legs folded beneath him, shield and spear ready.

  While they waited for their assailants to show themselves, Alvar wondered what nature of foe they were about to face. Who could have known that he and Beorn were headed this way? Although they were obviously a party of lords and their retainers, they were nevertheless but a small band, with no baggage carts or visible sign of wealth, other than their personal gear. Had they been incorrectly targeted, either by English warring locally with Danes, or vice versa? A cry went up and a ball of sound rolled out from the trees, containing the scuffle of men’s boots, the rustle of leaves, shouts of aggression, the clatter of spears, and axes thumping onto shields. Alvar slapped his stallion on the rump, sending the beast running further along the path; he would round him up later. If, indeed, ‘later’ came.

  Beorn and the next handful of men behind him all followed suit, and they moved close to Alvar to form an impromptu shield wall. A baby-blond-haired man with ragged clothes and a battered shield ran towards him and Alvar held his spear up. He used gravity to bring the spear point to his opponent’s face, taking a step forward as he thrust, and he felt from the flexible yet unyielding wall that Beorn was doing the same. Alvar’s spear ripped through the flesh of the blond’s cheek, slicing down and embedding into his shoulder. Alvar tugged hard to release the weapon and the baby-haired man fell back. Another, shorter, darker man took his place but Alvar could see in his peripheral vision that the line of attackers was, at any time, only one or two deep. They were not outnumbered and although they had been caught by surprise, this would be as fair a fight as any.

  Despite the fact that, as a group, these men had never fought together, the shield wall held. He and Beorn worked in concert, protecting and deflecting blows for each other, thrusting with spear and pushing forward with shield, arms alternating in a pummelling action, and Alvar was grateful to have such a man by his side.

  The smell was no longer the aroma of the forest; the sweetness of sap and foliage quickly became overpowered by the stench of warm bodies and the unmistakeable pungency of spilt blood. As the wall pushed a few steps forward with each onslaught, the ground underfoot became slippery, the woodland carpet greasy now with oozing blood.

  But now there were more enemy dead than living, and the last handful backed away before turning to flee. The victors banged their shields with their spear hafts and sent a loud cry after them, shouts of triumph to ring in their ears as they ran.

  Alvar and Beorn lowered their shields and Alvar held his hand out. Beorn grasped it, so that they held hand to forearm in a gesture of solidarity and friendship.

  Beorn said, “We picked a bad day to ride this way.”

  “I thought the same. How could they have known that we were coming, and got fight-ready so swiftly?” Alvar walked to the nearest corpse and turned the slumped torso with his foot. The man’s dress gave little away; it was perhaps Danish in style, but that told more about where he lived than his ethnicity. Any man living in or near the Danelaw would dress in a similar style, be he Englishman or Dane. One thing which was clear, however, was that he was not a rich man. His shield, lying useless by his side, was roughly made and simply decorated. He had a spear, but no sword, and his boots were fashioned from the most basic of tanned leather. He wore no jewellery and, if he possessed a cloak, he had lost it in the fighting. Yet there was a fat, lumpy otter-skin bag fastened to his belt. Alvar lowered onto one knee, took his hand-saex and cut the purse strings. Hefting the bag up and down in his palm he frowned and handed it to Beorn. “What do you think?”

  “I think that a man like that would only own this many coins if he had stolen them.” Beorn opened the bag and poured a few of the silver sceattas into his hand. “Enough here to give to our men, who fought well this day.”

  Alvar nodded, but placed a hand on Beorn’s arm. “Let me see them?”

  Beorn tipped a few of the coins into Alvar’s hand, and he picked one up and examined it. “These were minted in Worcester.”

  “Really? Either he robbed a wayfarer, or he has been a long way to steal these.”

  “Or someone came a long way to give them to him.”

  As Alvar had hoped, they caught up with the king’s household in London. Edgar, however, was not to be found with the rest of the court at his house at Greenwich, but had, they were informed, gone to the river. Alvar was used to the sights and smells down by the banks of the great river, where trading ships offloaded their goods and foreign sailors spent their profits on English ale before they piled their cargo high for their return journey to the near continent, or further afield to Rome, Byzantium, Baghdad or even Iceland. But the sight that greeted Alvar this day was different. Moored to the wharf were three newly built boats, and a further two were under construction. The workforce was English, but it was a Norse captain who barked out instructions as the carpenters planed the planks and nailed them, overlapping, onto the frames of the boats. These boats would be war ships, long enough for sixty crewmen but narrow, with a shallow keel to keep them sitting low in the water, and this shallow draft would allow them to navigate rivers. Alvar wondered what the folk of London thought about these ships, so Viking in appearance, emerging from the wharves. He could only hope that Edgar would order them painted in different colours than the blue, red and yellow that the invaders so often used.

  Edgar, hair bleached by the sun, was not wearing a tunic and his linen undershirt billowed in the breeze blowing across from the water. He stood still to listen when the Norseman spoke to him about some element of design, and periodically he leaped from one vessel to the other, inspecting the detail of workmanship.

  Sitting on cushions spread out over the grass above the wharf, Alfreda acknowledged Alvar’s presence with her slow blink and a small smile. The breeze lifted her skirts a little and revealed the merest glimpse of expensive silk slippers and pale white ankles.

  Beorn pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “This will be one of the prettier newcomers of whom you spoke?”<
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  Alvar said nothing.

  Beorn laughed. “And that man; is that Edgar?”

  ‘Man’. The lad was not yet twenty-two and here he was overseeing the building of a fleet supplemented by mercenary ships and sailors. Alvar smiled his approval and beckoned Beorn to step forward to be introduced.

  One of the men on the boat caught Edgar’s attention and pointed to the new arrivals. Edgar, cheeks flushed, bounded over and clasped Alvar to him. “You are back. How are my friends in the north?”

  “I have brought one to meet you, my lord. This is Oslac ‘Beorn’ of Deira, the man I told you about.”

  Edgar held out his hand and Beorn bent to kiss it. Edgar said, “Lord Alvar has told me how you have been speaking on my behalf in the north. I am grateful.”

  Alvar said, “There is yet more to tell. We were set upon on our way south, and Beorn here proved himself a fearless fighter. I was glad to have him at my side.”

  Edgar’s smile faded and his face reddened to an angry glow. “You were set upon? In my lands?”

  Beorn said, “Lord Alvar thought that it might have been men who…”

  But Alvar saw the bishop of Worcester walking along the wharf and put out a hand to silence his friend.

  He said, “It was naught, my lord, a skirmish, nothing more. And few of theirs left alive to speak of it.” As he watched the Dane approaching, he was tempted to suggest that whoever set the assailants upon him had not known that Beorn was travelling with him.

  Oswald had quickened his pace when he saw Alvar talking to Edgar and arrived slightly out of breath. “Lord Edgar, do not be hasty to anger. This is not lawlessness, and your kingship is not to blame. This is godlessness, and shows how much work is still to be done in the heathen north. And I see that the lord Alvar still lives.” This last was loaded with venom, despite being delivered with the smile required by social convention.

  Alvar, standing next to Beorn, felt his friend go tense and suspected that he had taken an instant dislike to the Crow of Worcester, while Alvar himself struggled against the temptation to ask Oswald how he knew what they were talking about, despite having missed most of the conversation.

  “Nevertheless,” Edgar said, “I would like to ride there and mete out some punishment.”

  The bishop paled. “Lord, there is no need.”

  Edgar would not be gainsaid. “I wish to be known as a peaceable king. But the folk who live in these lands need to know that every misdeed will be dealt with. And all men need to be made aware that I can, and will, fight.” He draped an arm over Alvar’s shoulder. “Come, my lords, let us make ready to go back and finish the fight.”

  As they walked back to the court, Edgar spoke to Beorn. “You live in Deira, but my thegns tell me that your grandfather was a Cambridgeshire man. Is this true?”

  “It is, my lord.” Beorn looked across at Alvar, raising his eyebrows in query.

  Alvar chuckled. Edgar was indebted to Beorn and might well reward him. But before he chose to make Beorn his eyes in the north, he had ascertained that the man had southern credentials and, therefore, southern loyalties, too. Not yet twenty-two, only just a man, but very much a king.

  Alfreda leaned back and turned her face to the sunshine. She opened her eyes when a shadow cooled her face. Edgar, Alvar, and Alvar’s friend were walking past and, as they passed by, Edgar turned his head and gazed back at her. Unsmiling, he looked her up and down and she felt her belly leap. There was no mistaking his desire. Edgar was determined to have her, and she would be a fool to refuse the man who believed her to be beautiful. How could she do other than respond to the flattery by acceding to his request whenever it came?

  She returned his stare and smiled in a way she had learned, a way that seemed to please most men. The three companions walked away and she noted the rip in the back of Alvar’s tunic. She tried to imagine him in the thick of battle, but she had no experience of such things, and could only dream up an image of him nimbly dodging axe blows whilst dispatching his foes with lethal accuracy. He, too, had appraised her with his gaze when he first arrived at the wharf. Her interest in him had been fuelled long ago by tales of his adventures and she was not disappointed when she finally met him. How could any woman not love him on sight? Probably she loved him even before that, on the strength of his reputation, but his behaviour towards her did nothing to erode his appeal; he was always attentive and if, of late, his smile had been tempered by a lack of warmth in his eyes, as if his life had been touched by sadness, it only served to heighten her curiosity. How to choose between these two men: one, valiant and loyal, harsh on the battlefield, gentle and shy off it and the other, confident, arrogant, and insistent that she should have whatever she desired and that he should, too. She raised her face to the sun once more and wondered how she might contrive to have them both. Why not, if she was, as they seemed to think, so desirable? She was frequently aware, nowadays, that men were looking at her; it was so much more pleasant than the foreboding that had dogged her moods when she was still wed.

  It had been some time since she had given any thought to Elwood. Whenever she thought back to the dark house in London, it was only to be grateful for the one moment of premeditation that found her arriving at the open air folk-moot on the high ground at St Paul’s, being recognised as a noblewoman because of her choice of fine dress, and being directed to the court where she was immediately welcomed as a woman of quality. Abbot Athelwold became her champion, and, now that he had been promoted to the bishopric of Winchester, his heightened status elevated her own. Only he and Edgar knew of her past; servants lowered their eyes not because they were sorry for her but because they were in awe, and she no longer cared to befriend them, for their opinions no longer mattered. They knew naught of her except that she was a grand lady, and losing her shackles of shame left her feeling exhilarated. Now she was free to move, and to enjoy her wealth, status and beauty.

  She heard a familiar voice and her reverie exploded, leaving only shards of bitter memories. Brandon’s unmistakeable whiny voice carried on the breeze, and Alfreda sat up to listen.

  “Lord Bishop, I came all this way straight from burying my father to speak to the king, and now I am told he has gone back to the hall. Must I chase him all day?”

  Alfreda, squinting against the sun, studied Bishop Oswald, and thought that he looked even more sour than usual.

  He said, “Never mind that. We have work to do. You are bereaved; your father was a great man, but it is time to make you a greater one. With my help, you will outshine your father. With your help, I can…”

  A gust of wind fluttered Alfreda’s veil, and the rustling, so close to her ears, prevented her from hearing the rest of Oswald’s speech. They began to walk towards her and she stood up, heart hammering somewhere near her throat. There was one aspect of her previous life which pained her still, and she must grasp this opportunity. As they approached, she took a step forward and touched Brandon’s arm. “My lord, I was sorry to hear of the death of the Half-king. You are newly returned from East Anglia. Have you any news of my children?”

  Brandon looked at first startled, and then, disgusted. He kept his chin up, but looked down at her hand until she took it away. Brushing his sleeve as if she had smeared it with mud from the river bed, he said, “Lady, when I was there I saw only my kin, those who share my blood, those who mourn. I do not recall that you ever mourned my brother. If you do not think of yourself as his widow, then how can his children be yours?”

  He walked on and Oswald followed, pausing briefly to bring his face uncomfortably close to hers. His lips drew back as he inhaled and she shrank back, convinced that he was about to hiss at her. But he passed by without speaking, and she turned to look at the pair of them as they walked away. Once the momentary fear subsided it left only a burning hatred. She had only two desires; somehow to see her children again, and to exact revenge. Alvar might well turn out to be the man that she would always love, but it was only the king who could help her now
. And she knew what she had to do.

  She followed the courtiers as they wandered from the water’s edge and back to Edgar’s house. The men had not gone inside and it was evident that they were making plans to leave. The king’s thegns had been mustered in the yard, and Lord Alvar and his friend were inspecting their war gear, running their thumbs across spear points and taking hold of shields, banging on them with the flat of their hands. Satisfied, they ordered the men into an extempore shield wall, lining up a few of the men who had travelled with them from the north into an opposing wall. Lord Alvar brought his arm up, held it aloft, and then brought it down as a cue for the two lines to advance. They met in the middle of the yard with a clash as the metal shield bosses collided. There was a plethora of loud grunts and plenty of shoving, but both walls held, with neither giving ground. Alvar gave the signal for them to ease off.

  Edgar wandered over to Lord Alvar and whispered in his ear. Edgar stepped back, and draped his arm casually over Brandon’s shoulder. Alvar spoke to the king’s thegns and glanced around the yard. He spied his target and beckoned to a small boy, who came forward shyly and stood in front of the great lord, hands clasped behind his back, and his shoe tracing lines in the dirt. Alvar lifted his own shield from his shoulder, bent down, and handed it to the youngster. He showed him how to hold it by grasping the leather strap and keeping the shield across the body. He unsheathed the hand-saex from his knife belt and placed the blade into the boy’s other hand, and then he gestured towards the shield wall where the king’s thegns were standing in tight formation. The little boy nodded, perhaps with a little trepidation, for his teeth were clamped on his bottom lip. He stood for a moment, as if assessing the enormity of his task. He tucked his head down and set off at a run, hurtling across the yard and aiming for the central section of the wall. At the moment of impact, to a man, the king’s thegns fell backwards, the wall collapsed, and the little boy emerged triumphant. The crowd whooped and cheered and laughed, and the boy beamed with pride. Alfreda tried to swallow away the lump in her throat. The boy was about the same age as her eldest son. She turned away but her path was blocked by Bishop Oswald.