Alvar the Kingmaker

by Annie Whitehead

  Many shouted their agreement and pointed fingers at Bishop Athelwold but Alvar, always less comfortable attacking the queen’s champion, looked down at a dirty stain on the floorboards and poked it with his foot. He looked up when the clamour subsided and he put out his arms. “These men would have their land back, my lord Archbishop, and they are but a few of those who have been wronged in this way.”

  Dunstan cast another glance around the room, as if to assess the mood of the men gathered there, and shot a look of appeal to the silent Edward, who remained seated on the king-stool and picked at his nails.

  “My lord Alvar, these are b-but one or two tales. Tales,” he emphasised the word, “Which have not been heard in law. They do not speak for the whole of my lord King’s lands.”

  “Oh, I can give you more. A thegn in East Anglia, one Alfric, unable to settle a debt, had his land given to the abbey at Ely.”

  Dunstan shook his head. “If I find it hard t-to accept your words as the truth, it is b-because the lord Brandon, who is lord in the lands of which you speak, does not come to me bearing the same tales.”

  A shout came up from the back of the hall. “He is too busy taking land for himself.”

  Alvar turned, but the heckler remained faceless in the crowd of men who nudged each other.

  Dunstan waited for quiet. “All I am saying is that not all the earls are with you in this. We hear nothing from East Anglia, or Essex, or from Northumbria.”

  A Northumbrian voice called out. “You saw to it that Earl Beorn is too far away to be heard!” He was applauded with whoops and jeers directed at the figures on the dais.

  Again, Dunstan waited for calm.

  Edwin of Kent left his seat and went to stand next to Alvar. “You will hear from me, my lord. And I stand with Mercia on this.”

  Wulfgar got to his feet. “I, too.”

  One by one, thegns from all areas stood up, declared their agreement and went to stand near Alvar. Brihtmær of Chester and Aswy of Shropshire moved to their lord’s side as expected, but Osmund of Suffolk came too. Wedwine of Ramsey left Brandon’s side, and brought his own men with him. Soon, only a handful of men remained in their seats as the witan members stood to join the Mercians in the centre of the room. The malcontents stood in defiant silence and Alvar waited for Dunstan to admit defeat. He looked at the king, who was sitting slumped, with his head forward.

  Alvar nudged Wulfgar and pointed. “See how idle Edward is, to sleep while…”

  Wulfgar opened his mouth to reply, but then he touched Alvar’s arm. “My lord? Do you hear it?”

  Alvar tilted his head to one side and listened to the slow rumble as it grew louder. He looked down at his feet. The rumble gave way to loud creaking, the floor moved, and he put a hand on the table to steady himself. Around him, men turned to each other, shook their heads and frowned. A splintering crack followed the creaking as the middle section of the floor gave way. Alvar saw the realisation on Wulfgar’s face a second before they, and all those who had been standing with them, were hurled with the falling timbers to the floor below. Lengths of oak tables fell through after the hurtling beams and rotten floorboards; chair legs speared men who lay helpless, injured or worse by the fall. They lay, innocent killers of those under them, those who had dropped first and were buried before they died.

  The sound of crashing timber subsided and a cloud of plaster-dust rose and fell. In the silence, another sound, an unearthly groan, grew louder, until one final beam broke off and landed on the top of the heap. It came to rest, tottered, and the higher end wavered before, with one last creak, it settled.

  Alvar lay still while he waited for the tell-tale pain to manifest itself. When none came, he felt along his arms and as far down his legs as he could reach without sitting up.

  “Wulfgar?”

  A muffled voice came from below him. “If my lord would shift his arse from my head, I would find answering him less of a hardship.”

  The long silence broken, men began trying to move, calling out to friends or crying out in pain. No longer able to hear his friend, Alvar shuffled around and found Wulfgar pinned down under a floorboard. He shoved the wood away from Wulfgar’s chest, sat him up, and held his arm around him until he was happy with his breathing. He helped him up and they scrabbled at the fallen timbers so that they could free others who were still trapped. Rescuers began working from the other end of the lower room and, as he and Wulfgar dug with their hands, Alvar shouted out. “Thegn Wulfgar and I are here; keep coming this way as you can. Delve deep, for many are hidden.”

  Above them, Dunstan was the first to stir, and scrambled out onto the only beam which remained intact throughout the length of the broken section of the floor. He peered down at the pile of bodies and splintered wood, and turned his back on the scene.

  Wulfgar said, “How swiftly these churchmen run.”

  But Dunstan’s voice rang out. “My lord King, Bishops, follow me down the stairs. You, king’s reeve; gather your men and go in to help those who have fallen. You, there; send riders to the abbeys at Bath and Malmesbury. Bring back monks who have knowledge of healing. My lords, I will see you safe down the steps, and then I must go and help in any way that I can.”

  Alvar raised an eyebrow. “Who would have thought it?” He spat dust and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and looked around him to see what needed to be done next. The fallen men attempted to get up, and those who were unscathed or only wounded moved away to reveal those who had not been so fortunate, crushed under the weight of timbers and bodies. Alvar and Wulfgar lifted each dead man as soon as the body was freed.

  On the other side of the lower chamber, King Edward could be heard berating his clergy. “I look to you to shield me from harm, but I could have been killed here today.”

  Dunstan said, “My lord King, you were not killed, but many have been. We must look to those who need our help, and offer up prayers for those who are beyond such earthly cares.”

  “No.” It could have been another piece of falling timber, but the subsequent crack sounded more like a hand on a face. “All of my life I have had a man of God telling me what to do. Even when I became king you all told me that you knew best, even after I was a man grown. And now my lords fight as they would never have done in my father’s time. They make it known that they would have that grist-biter Æthelred as their king. All I have so far to show for my kingship is starvation and fighting and roofs falling in.”

  Edward’s voice rose higher and the unwilling eavesdroppers lowered their gaze and returned to their search, grabbing at the debris in silence. Alvar kept his head low, listening for moans under the noise of Edward’s screeching.

  “This is God’s doom on my witan. They are gutless men who would not know the hue of a dog turd. And speaking of little shits, where is that weak brat and his whore of a mother? Why were they not here to feel God’s wrath… Was this her doing? Did my stepmother mean for me to die here this day?”

  Bishop Athelwold spoke now, his elderly voice cracking. “Lord King, the lady Alfreda is at her house at Corfe. She will be greatly saddened by this sorrowful news. She is a good Christian woman and will spend many hours kneeling before the altar, praying for these lost souls.”

  “Liar. All through my kingship that bitch has sat and smirked, biding her time until the day her whelp can take my king-seat. Well they will not have it!”

  Wulfgar let out a slow whistle. “Surely he will not strike the bishop now?”

  But there were no more raised voices. They redoubled their efforts to free those still trapped and to remove the bodies of those who were beyond help.

  Alvar took up one end of a beam, Wulfgar the other. “One, two, three, heave.” They hurled the wood to the side of the room and knelt down to pull out Osmund of Suffolk, bloodied, but alive.

  Alvar said, “I wondered where you had gone. First you were standing beside me, but then you went away.”

  Osmund grinned. “I thought I would go downstairs for a while, m
y lord, but I was too idle to walk the long way.”

  “While you were gone, we let some more light in.” Wulfgar pointed to the hole above them and laughed, but it was a trickle, not the torrent that usually chuckled forth.

  Alvar turned to tackle another pile of rubble. “I do not think that there are any bodies underneath, but we should look anyway.”

  They clawed at the mass of ruptured timbers and clumps of plaster, until the floor was visible beneath it. Alvar wiped dust, sweat and blood from his face, and stood up to ease the ache in his back. He turned and met Dunstan. He swallowed to find some moisture for his burning throat.

  “Lord Archbishop, it looks as if we have met in the middle.”

  Dunstan inclined his head. “Sometimes it is the only way.”

  Alvar returned his gaze and they both nodded.

  “Lord Alvar, do you think you can ride? Our lord King has taken off in a temper and without his thegns. We will d-do what needs to be done here; I need you and your men to fetch Edward back, for he needs to be seen with his folk at such a heart-rending time.”

  “Do you know where he was going?”

  “He said that he needed to kick out, that his lords were all lying in a heap, and his bishops would all only offer him the other cheek. I think he has gone to Corfe.”

  Corfe, Dorset

  Alfreda sat back in her chair, put the cup to her lips and sipped the mead, enjoying the sweet warmth as it slid down her throat and heated her belly. In the three years since she had been widowed she had learned to take the time to savour even the tiniest pleasures, otherwise the nights stretched out, and offered only boredom followed by an empty bed. In the days of her marriage to Elwood, she would have welcomed the chance to sleep alone. But she had learned from Edgar first to believe in, and then to use, her allure. With that lesson came the realisation that Alvar appreciated her beauty every bit as much as her husband did. She delighted in the knowledge that both men were keen to have her. Thus she would spend the evening in their company and come bedtime she would be so aroused that it never really mattered that Edgar was not the man of her dreams. It had sweetened the bitterness of the drink she had brewed for herself.

  A cry went up from the other side of the hearth, where Siferth and some other thegns were volubly engaged in a table-game. A cleverly strategic move had been greeted with grudging respect, heads in arm-locks, and drink spilt. Siferth called for more drinks, but none was forthcoming. A small slave-boy lay asleep by the fire and Alfreda leaned forward to kick him awake. “See to the drinks. Now.”

  The boy scuttled off to fetch new jugs of ale, and Alfreda smiled at Siferth, who raised his cup to her in acknowledgement. When the boy came back, his legs wobbling under the weight, Siferth drained the refill in one long swig, wiped his hand across his mouth, and held his cup up for replenishment.

  Alfreda sat back in her chair. She would have a word with her steward about the lack of care paid to her thegns’ needs. Siferth had served her well, and she would not have her hospitality found wanting. The young man had been her one source of solid comfort through her dark hours.

  In the depths of mourning she had clung to the hope that with Edgar dead, Alvar would at last declare his feelings. But whenever she revisited in her mind the fraught meeting after he came back from overseeing Beorn’s banishment, she saw the indifference on his face to all but her sadness. Her hands made fists on the side of her chair as she recalled how he’d ignored her overtures, and the thought had passed through her mind that he was, in fact, every bit as uncouth as his enemies had declared. He had fussed around Siferth so much that anyone would have thought that it was the boy, and not her, who had been bereaved. This had led her to accuse Alvar of fathering Siferth, but she knew she was wrong. Alvar had always been too devoted to her and to Edgar to have any life beyond court. And she could not be envious of Siferth, for he had more than made up for the slight by showing such loyalty to her.

  She had spent enough moments alone to realise that her status was a weapon with two edges. Her power as queen was dependent first on Edgar and now on being the mother of the atheling. Her elevated position as royal mother would only last until such time that Edward had a child. Then who would defend her? Once upon a time she had assumed that person would be Alvar, but there lay yet another puzzle: whilst she was beginning to accept that Alvar might not, after all, want her, she was at a loss to understand why. Her title had kept her protected in a physical sense but it had not saved her emotionally. It had been so obvious that Alvar was attracted by her beauty so she had no idea what had gone wrong, and she had no other weapon in her arsenal. She had learned to use her looks, and it was the men in her life who had made it perfectly clear that this was the only way a woman like her could survive, so Alvar’s rejection was a mystery to her.

  Another shout went up from the gaming table and Siferth stood up, punching the air with his free hand. His other fist was still curled tightly around his ale cup and he made his way over to Alfreda, taking a few more sips as he walked. He indicated the chair next to her with a nod and a raised eyebrow.

  She leaned across and patted the seat, smiling. “You do not need to ask before you take a seat beside me.” As he sank onto the cushioned seat, she wriggled on her own chair, adjusting her kirtle so that it lay flat across her belly, and tugging it down slightly by her bosom.

  “A drink, my lady?”

  She turned her head so that she could look into his eyes. “Why not?” She patted his hand. “You are always so thoughtful, seeing to my needs.” She sat back and gave what she hoped was a convincing laugh as she looked out across her hall. “Are we not truly blessed, with games and laughter, and all these beloved thegns?”

  A man would not starve or even complain if he ate fish every day of his life. But give him the taste of deer meat, washed down with the exotic wines from over the sea, and the fish would begin to lose its flavour. And Alfreda, who knew what it was to have an attentive man in her bed every night and to wield power over the lives of those who had crossed her, felt the noise of her happy hall ringing hollow in her ears. Yes, why not get drunk?

  She looked at Siferth. “Why do you not bring your friends here, too?”

  Godric, vanquished at the gaming table, came at Siferth’s signal and sat on the floor, his legs folded up under him. Alfreda looked down at him. He was not yet twenty, but his deportment gave him the slow confidence of one much older. His soft brown hair was shorn close to his head and shone like smooth mole-fur. He seemed to be staring at the mead-bench and she thought she could detect the object of his attention. One of her wards, Edith, sat nibbling daintily on a small piece of bread, her round cheek-apples bobbing up and down as she chewed. Ulf, another of Siferth’s companions, wandered over to join the group and playfully cuffed Godric round the ear before he sat down next to Siferth.

  “Your aim forgets the reach of your lowly arrow, Godric.”

  Godric laughed. “There is no law that forbids me to look. I know she is too high-born for me, but she can be mine whenever I sleep.”

  Alfreda touched the top of his velvety head. “It is within my gift, you know. She is my ward, after all.”

  Godric wriggled round and rested his forearms on her chair. “Truly? Can you do this, my lady?”

  Siferth said, “My lady can do aught. For is she not the true king’s mother?”

  Alfreda looked down at her lap. “Then pray to God that my little Æthelred stays strong and healthy. For without a husband of my own, what would I do if aught befell my boy or worse, if Edward were to beget sons?”

  Ulf stood up and bowed low, wobbling more than a little as he straightened up again. “I will wed you, my lady.”

  She laughed, as he had intended that she would. “You? You are a mere sapling.”

  Godric slid forward and hooked his leg round Ulf’s, causing him to sink to his knees. Godric said, “He is not man enough to take care of you. No, Lady, I will wed you.”

  She gave a gasp of mock outra
ge. “But what about my poor ward?”

  But Godric and Ulf were now engaged in a play fight, rolling over by the hearth like two overgrown pups. Siferth chuckled into his ale cup.

  She kicked him playfully. “What of you? Are you taking no part in this?”

  He grinned. “Let them fight; when they are both spent, there will be no man but me to take your hand, fair lady.” He clapped his hands. “Piper! Play for us.”

  With the dusk had come a low mist that hovered above the ground in the gap between the hills and chilled him with its clammy white tendrils. Alvar stopped to blow on his hands. They were raw and still bleeding, peppered with splinters. Only a fool would tell Dunstan that he was fit to ride with such injuries; only an old fool would take off with so few men.

  Brihtmær of Chester said, “You are deep in thought, my lord?”

  “I think my brain must have been shaken by the fall. It will take more than three men to herd one sore-tempered king. Wulfgar’s backside was hurt more than his pride, stopping him from leaping into the saddle, and he sits now by the hearth at Calne. Was I a madman not to do the same?”

  Brihtmær said, “The night is too early for us to know the answer. But you were called upon to ride here and so you came. You would not have done otherwise.”

  “But with so few men?”

  “We brought all we could, my lord. It might be that we need no more.”

  “I pray that you are right.” The daylight was all but gone, and Alvar led the way towards the shadowy outline of the queen’s house on the hillside.

  The guard at the gate nodded and bowed, and Alvar, Brihtmær, and Ingulf of Worcester entered the enclosure. The hall door opened, showing a glimpse of the warm welcome that might have been theirs on any other night, beckoning fatigued visitors to the bright and cheerful hearth. A figure staggered out, ale cup in hand, and greeted a companion by the stable block. The door slammed shut. Brihtmær handed his reins to a stable-hand and said, “Is that not your foster-son, Siferth of Ashleigh?”