But this evening he seemed not to want to expound his discourse on the development of the monastic houses. Instead, the kindly abbot leaned in close to her and said, “If there is one thing for which I am truly sorry, it is that when I was brought here as teacher to Edgar and the younger boys, it was too late to mete out any wisdom to your husband.”
Alfreda’s cheeks burned hotter than the hearth-fire. Was there no-one who was unaware of her shame?
But Abbot Athelwold continued. “It saddens me that at seventeen and wed for a year, you have no keys at your belt, nor have you been given your rightful place at the lords’ bench to pour the drinks, as the lady of the house should do.”
Surprise drained the heat from her face and she suppressed an impulse to let out a shrill laugh. Still, better that he should think her ill-treatment at Elwood’s hands extended to no more than a slight to her position as highest-born woman in the widowed Half-king’s household. Besides, there was a hidden blessing to her relegation at mealtimes; from her seat on a lower bench, she could hear the conversation at the head table, without feeling obliged, or being expected, to contribute.
The food was brought in; plates of eels, fresh cheeses and cereal brews flavoured with herbs and spring onions. The smells turned her already tender stomach and Alfreda glanced across at the foreign visitors and contemplated enquiring of them whether Frankish or German men ever beat their women, for she couldn’t help but wonder where Elwood had acquired his notion of what constituted genteel behaviour.
The Half-king had taken his place at the head table and was sitting on the ornately carved chair, with Elwood on one side of him and Prince Edgar on the other. It took only a few mouthfuls of food before Alfreda discovered the source of Elwood’s ire. As had become her habit, she pretended an interest in her food to discourage conversation, which enabled her to listen to those at the head table.
Elwood spat out gobbets of food as he spoke. “So, this brat of a king will not right the wrong he has done to us. You are the only lord who has not been given any new lands since the king-making. Worse, the lands in Mercia of which you were caretaker have been given to Alvar, when they should have formally been given over to you. We are poorer while these upstarts come from nowhere to wield power and strength.”
The Half-king, who was grey-haired but sat with a straight back, finished his mouthful and wiped his lips on a linen napkin before he spoke. “The Fairchild is busy giving land in order to bind the lords to him. Since he does not wholly trust me or mine, and knows that in any case we cannot be bought, he does not try.” He smiled ruefully at his son. “The raising up of the newcomers troubles me as much as it does you, but I will not stoop so low as to beg for more land.”
It seemed that Elwood might choke before he managed to spit out more words and while he continued to splutter and fail to enunciate, Prince Edgar cleared his throat.
“I do not know my brother overly well, but I think he has misunderstood what it means to be king. You cannot buy men’s loyalty, nor is it wise to think that you can earn their steadfastness. It is yours by right, but you must demand it without seeming to. And never show weakness.”
Now it was Alfreda who struggled to swallow her food. She looked again at Edgar and shook her head slowly, trying to reconcile his sagacity with her awareness of his tender age.
Elwood’s brow was creased. He took a swig of ale and said, “Yes, well, word-craft is all well and good, but how will that get me the land that is due to me?”
Edgar raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
“Hah! You see? You have no answer. For all your words, you do not know.”
Alfreda thought that Elwood was wrong. It seemed to her rather that Edgar just didn’t care.
Abbot Athelwold laid a hand on her arm to gain her attention and then whispered to her. “It is true that the Half-king held the Mercian lands after Alvar’s father died. But the Mercians loved that man and they will welcome his son, Alvar, who, from what I have seen, is made from the same clay. He is not merely one of the Fairchild’s creatures; he is a skilled swordsman and his brother, a man whom I have known a long time, tells me he has a sharp mind.”
The Half-king was staring out far across the hall. Alfreda was moved again to think how imposing a figure he was. He was immense in stature and in reputation. He had been guardian not only of a future king, but of vast swathes of the country while kings came and went. If the new king did not require his services then however resigned he might appear, surely it must rankle? But he was naught if not pragmatic and after a few more moments of contemplation, he spoke again.
“I think we are allowing the chaff to blind us to the wheat.” He lowered his head and Elwood leaned in to catch what he was saying. Whatever they were plotting, there would be no more eavesdropping; where Elwood shouted for all to hear, the shrewd Half-king kept his scheming secret. Alfreda would have to look elsewhere for distraction.
Her gaze shifted to Edgar and she was still staring at him when he looked up and smiled at her. Caught out, she looked away and found herself staring instead at Elwood’s youngest brother. The lord of Brandon had the same pale features as the rest of the family, but his cheeks were less florid. He was of average height for his age and thus a little taller than Edgar, but he had yet to fill out and take on the shape of an adult. How could it be then, that he and his foster-brother were the same age? Edgar’s poise and gravity belied his extreme youth. His widowed mother had entrusted him into the Half-king’s care, where he would be nurtured and prepared for kingship when the time came. How soon would that time come? While she was still musing on the differences between Edgar and his foster-brothers, Brandon looked up and she averted her gaze. He liked her no more than did his brother, and she returned the loathing. The Half-king had three sons, but Alfreda thought that not one of them measured to a third of their father.
Laughter wafted now from the head table and Alfreda lifted her head. Several of the diners were engaged in ribald conversation. She heard, “It is said that she is a winsome woman” and the response, “But she is a whore, and everyone saw how she…” and it was clear that they were talking yet again about the scandal of the king’s coronation feast.
Elwood said, “It is rare to find a woman who does not play the whore. It is in their blood, I think.”
Alfreda’s own blood flowed in warm pulses back to her face.
Prince Edgar said, “But at least my brother has a wife, which is something I do not have. He has a kingdom, too, which I also do not have. If you do not like women, Foster-brother, then maybe I’ll have your wife off you.”
Elwood’s eyes flashed black. He looked first at his father, then back to Edgar. “Why not? It would not be the only thing you have had off me.”
“I would not need your permission.” Edgar smiled briefly and winked at Alfreda. “I take whatever I want.”
Alfreda found reason to examine the food remaining on her plate and did not dare to look up again. ‘I take whatever I want.’ It was a bold claim. And he mentioned kingdoms, as well as women. Edgar’s confidence bordered on arrogance but there was no doubt that he was convinced of his destiny and his ability. There was, perhaps, quite a lot that a boy could do.
Chapter Two AD957
In the shadow of the Black Mountain, Wales/Herefordshire border
Sweat loosened Alvar’s grip and the sword hilt shifted in his hand. The skirmish had brought little glory with it, for either side, but neither had it brought any riches for the handful of Welshmen who had launched the raid. He planted his sword in the ground and wiped his palm on his tunic while he counted the dead. None of his men, four of theirs, and three wounded. The corpses lay bent and ugly; one man with his legs folded under his body, one on his front with a Mercian axe protruding from his back. Next to him lay a young lad whose shield was pinned to his body by the spear that had penetrated both shield and stomach, and the last lay slumped by the wall of a shepherd’s hut, his guts spilt.
It had been over quickly a
nd had not resembled a pitched battle. In a way, Alvar preferred this method of fighting, for he was light on his feet and accurate with his weapons, sparingly effective with his moves, and he felt constrained at times by the formulaic fighting of the shield wall. He looked again at the corpse against the wall and thought about how, as a lad, he used to practise on the slaughter-man’s carcasses; not for him the dull, unsatisfying thud of the wooden practice swords. His father wanted him to know what it felt like to thrust a metal weapon into flesh. The tactic had helped his preparation, but there was naught that truly felt the same as the pushing of iron into a living body.
A shout went up and the last Welshman ran from behind the hut, spear held high. Alvar freed his sword from the ground, immediately at a disadvantage with his shorter weapon. As his opponent ran towards him, Alvar had to raise his shield to deflect the first spear thrust and was momentarily robbed of his sight while he held the shield aloft. A counter-thrust was of little use as the spearman would simply step back, keeping the longer length of his weapon between them. Armed with only his shorter sword, Alvar would not be able to get close. When the Welshman hefted his spear back, ready to thrust again, Alvar dropped to one knee, rolled over one shoulder and brought his sword up into his adversary’s belly before the man was able to lower his shield. The man sank to his knees, the spear crashed to the ground, the shield dropped, and Alvar thrust again with his sword, higher up this time, through the heart.
He was cleaning his sword when Helmstan, muddy and bloody, sauntered over. “That was done swiftly and well.”
Alvar grunted. “He should have known when to give thanks for his life and walk away. Now he has made me cross and learned the hard way.”
Helmstan whistled. “If that is how you fight when mildly irked, then the world had better look out if ever you truly lose your temper.”
Alvar’s laughter exceeded normal noise levels, as he released the tension after the recent utilisation of his warrior reflexes. “The greater worry is whether you will be keen to fight any more, with your bride waiting in Cheshire.”
“Hah! If you saw her, you would find reasons aplenty to bide in Cheshire yourself. But what would you know about settling with one woman when you seem to find yourself a new one each night?”
Alvar lunged forward and aimed a mock punch at Helmstan’s belly. Helmstan pretended to parry and then they stood, arms about each other’s shoulders. Alvar was about to order the burial of the dead, when he looked back towards the border. “Before you go to your wife, it looks as though the lord of Mercia needs you one last time. That is a great many horses for a host not bent on fighting.”
Helmstan turned and put his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. “Who is it?”
Riding from the direction of the garrison at Hereford, a group of twenty or more horse made its way towards the skirmish site and Alvar could not identify the banners. He shook his head. “I do not know. Gather the others.”
But as the entourage came nearer Alvar recognised the colours of the Half-king of East Anglia. Riding under that protection and surrounded by thegns was a youth who looked similar to the king; it was not a huge leap to assume that this was his younger brother, Prince Edgar. The boy sat not very high in the saddle, but he had a man’s jaw and his shoulders were broad. The colour of the downy moustache indicated that the hair concealed by his helmet was as fair as his brother’s.
The company of thegns dismounted, but Edgar remained in the saddle. Alvar made formal greetings, but said no more than was necessary. These men had gone to a great deal of trouble to find him when they could have awaited his return at Hereford and he would say nothing that would delay an explanation.
Edgar said, “It looks as though we are here too late. I was keen to see the fight.”
Alvar frowned. “Why?”
Edgar stared at him, unblinking. “When a would-be king comes to ask a man for help, it is a good thing if he can witness how well he fights.”
Alvar’s heart speeded up. Which should he contemplate first; the call for help, or the professed ambition to be king?
The surprise must have been writ large on his face, for Edgar said, “I have come to ask you to help me win a kingdom and in return, I will see Mercia rich beyond dreams.” He leaned forward in his saddle. “You are well known as a slayer of the Welsh. I am fourteen now, old enough for a kingdom and I believe you are the best man to help me get it.”
Alvar shook his head. Help to overthrow the king? He was no rebel. And why would this boy, whose foster-kin were the most formidable family in the land, need the aid of a newly appointed earl of Mercia?
Edgar straightened up. “Lord Alvar, may I be forthright?”
“I wish you would.”
“My brother’s only interests are his wife and his riches, and he believes that Wessex is where the wealth is.”
Alvar nodded, recalling how the Fairchild had argued with Dunstan over the redistribution of the late king’s bequests.
Prince Edgar continued. “The lords tire of his ways. My foster-father put it to him that he should share his kingdom with me, and my brother barely looked up from his ale. Wessex is enough for him, it seems. So here I am, asking for your help to set me upon a throne that will see me king in Mercia and the north.”
So, not a rebellion; but if his brother had already agreed to a partition, why was Edgar here in Mercia asking for help? Alvar opened his mouth to speak, but Helmstan tugged at his sleeve and dragged him aside. “My lord, you must say yes.” He shifted from foot to foot, as if he would jump in joy. “Think how well this could turn out for Mercia. Your father was…”
“I know who my father was.”
Alvar walked back to where Edgar remained patiently on his horse, displaying no signs of agitation but sitting with shoulders relaxed, hands loosely on the reins. He was going to be a small adult, but he showed none of the attitude which oft-times afflicted small men, exuding instead nothing less than supreme confidence. But self-belief could still be misdirected. Alvar needed to know more. He reached up and patted the horse’s neck. Looking up at the young prince, he said, “Lord Edgar, will you tell me why you think you need my help?”
Edgar lowered his head briefly as if nodding assent. He dismounted and touched Alvar’s elbow, indicating a wish to withdraw from the others before speaking further.
“All my life, I have seen my foster-father forging bonds with men from other lands and I’ve learned that we must look outward, not inward as my brother does. I understand that there is an England beyond Wessex.” He stared at Alvar and nodded. “And it is my belief that you do, too. Unlike the other earls who sit on their arses and flatter my brother, you have come back to Mercia, and serve the folk.” He leaned in closer. “The other erstwhile kingdoms have no love for my brother, but nor do they have any love for each other. So, first I must get them all on the same side: mine. Then, and only then, will we take our fight into Wessex. From there I can make a vast kingdom, and who knows how far it will one day reach? And, to speak plainly, since there is no love lost between the East Anglians and the Mercians, it would be foolhardy of me to try to take Mercia by force. I have their oaths of loyalty; now I need yours.” He stood up straight and took a step back.
Alvar sighed and scratched his chin. Oath-breakers were anathema; he had pledged loyalty to the king and, like all men, his word was his bond. But Edgar’s brother had merely bought the nobility and it was a strategy which, if this boy could be believed, was not working. Thus was the two-way contract already broken? He said, “Even if I say yes, I am only one man. I cannot speak even for Mercia, much less the other former kingdoms.”
Edgar held his hand up. “But, you are not saying no?”
“I am saying that I think there is little that I could do for you. My men and I are sword wielders, yes, and if it comes to pass that one day you move to overthrow your brother, then we could, if willing, help you. But we do not speak for every man in Mercia and I do not see an easy way to ask them all. In da
ys gone by you could have called the old Mercian council. Maybe that is what you should do now.”
“Yes!” The shout came from Helmstan, and Alvar turned to see his friend punching the air.
Alvar was still unsure, but perhaps it could not harm to hear what the other Mercian lords had to say. He knew that the significance would be lost on none of them; the council had been defunct since the day Mercia lost its regal status and became subjugate to Wessex. He nodded. “Well then, my lord. Let us make our way back to Hereford and we will talk some more.”
He stepped back as Edgar remounted and turned his horse around. The young man surveyed the battle scene. “It was a godsend that you were here when the Welsh came.”
Helmstan snorted and stepped forward. “God had naught to do with it. Lord Alvar makes good use of the fort in Hereford. Every day he sends men out to look for any trouble that might be brewing.”
Edgar nodded with satisfaction. “I knew I was right to come,” he said.
Alvar looked around the hall and considered that perhaps in the Mercian heyday, the council at the royal seat of Tamworth might have been a more sophisticated affair. Here in Hereford, a permanently manned garrison, there were plenty of women, but they were not the sort of ladies who graced the benches of the great hall when the nobility met. He also doubted that this rough wooden hall had anything to offer as a rival to the renowned grandeur of the Half-king’s houses. Nevertheless, all the men summoned had appeared; representatives of all corners of Mercia and all the ancient tribes who still cleaved to their own centuries-old identity, and it was clear from the good-natured chatter that they were happy to be there.
Alvar the Kingmaker Page 3