Alvar stood up and repeated the proposition as it had been put to him on the windy hillside only a few days before. He waited until the first wave of surprise had subsided. He would not say any more until questions were raised.
The first was simple, and perhaps the most expected. “What does the king think about this? Surely he will not sit idly by whilst he loses half his kingdom?”
Helmstan’s overlord, Edelman the Greybeard, lord of Chester, stood up and said, “The way I see it is this: it is the same as thirty years ago when King Edward died. He left Wessex to his legitimate son and gave Mercia to his firstborn, Athelstan. No-one spoke against this and it worked well.”
Alvar shifted on his seat, for he recalled that it had worked a little too well. According to Alvar’s father, less than four weeks later that same legitimate son died in a manner which no man could fully explain and Athelstan had become king of the whole land. As he listened to increasing shouts of enthusiasm for the resurrection of the old days and the old ways, he could not help but feel uneasy that the nationalist Mercian lords were misinterpreting Edgar’s intentions. But anyone could see that the result was a foregone conclusion, for the men in this hall had already embraced Edgar as their new king and no urging of caution would be heeded.
He was required to ask if all were in agreement that Edgar be declared king of the Mercians, but had not finished speaking when every man in the room began thumping his fists on the table, the booming noise rivalling the clatter of shields on the battlefield. It was done, and Alvar knew he was being carried along on a wave whose current was too strong for him to swim against.
Edgar’s first act as king was symbolic. Gifting land at Staunton-on-Arrow to a Herefordshire thegn, Edgar stepped forward and gave a square of turf from the said land. The grant would need to be written in the form of a charter, but for now the gesture was enough.
Alvar sat back. Edgar had come of age and now he was king alongside his brother. Alvar could take no praise for thinking to call the council, for that was a snatching of an idea, not the result of reasoned political thought; he knew his value to Edgar was his military skill and the large numbers of men at his disposal. He thought that perhaps he should cease his agonising over the morality of the unfolding events and be content to know that, come what may, he could continue to wield his sword with satisfying regularity.
He had eaten his fill and enjoyed the spectacle of the knife-jugglers. Too drunk to solve the scop’s riddles, he sat back and allowed his eyes to close. The orange glow of candlelight penetrating his shut lids darkened, and he opened his eyes and sat up.
Edgar was standing at the end of the table. “I wish to speak to you.”
Alvar sat up and shuffled along the bench. “Sit, then.”
Edgar remained standing. “Not here.”
Alvar stood up. If Edgar’s words could not be spoken in the hall then they must be weighing heavy.
The new king of Mercia said nothing more and Alvar shook his head and tried to snap himself awake as he followed him out of the hall and across the courtyard. Braziers kept the dark night at bay, and the clanging of the smithy well past evensong was enough to tell any traveller that the garrison was overflowing with wealthy guests that night. Edgar stopped outside the little limestone chapel. A guard stepped away from the door and Alvar stumbled into the gloom. The oak door swung shut behind them and closed with a heavier thud than in daylight.
Edgar genuflected and then sat down on one of the little pews. He gestured for Alvar to do the same. Older by seven years and taller by nearly a foot, when Alvar sat beside the king his shoulder was level with Edgar’s chin.
Edgar said, “I would have your thoughts on how I win over the rest of the north, Lord Alvar.”
So, Edgar had a use for him beyond the securing of Mercia. He perhaps should have felt flattered, but he thought that the compliment was misplaced. He said, “Why do you seek my thoughts? I am but a Mercian lord with a reasonably good sword arm.”
“Indeed. Yet you are the man who thought to revive the council that has today named me king of the Mercians. It seems to me that your mind might be at least as sharp as your blade.”
Sharper than the boy’s mind apparently, if Edgar could not grasp that the Mercians would probably have elected a milch cow if they thought it would bring them back their independence. “What do you wish to know?” Edgar already had the East Anglians’ loyalty. But perhaps his education had not been as comprehensive as Alvar’s own; in which case he might not know that of the other former kingdoms, Northumbria was once not one, but two realms. It had only very recently come under the control of Wessex and it was still culturally cleft in two; the southern half, centred on Danish York, spoke the language of its erstwhile Viking rulers while the north, incorporating the ancient seat of Bamburgh, spoke English. He said, “Northumbria has no kings, only high-reeves, and some would say that is a fall from a great height…” Alvar spread his hands out, palms up. He had no need to point out the similarities with Mercia. But maybe he needed to remind Edgar that the Danes who dwelt in the southern reaches of Northumbria and the north-eastern part of Mercia were used to their own autonomy, and would guard jealously the specially written law codes which had given rise to the naming of the area as Danelaw. “And the Danes will listen to no man who will not swear to let them keep their own laws.”
“So, if I am to win over the hearts and minds of the Northumbrians and the Danes, I will need to be mindful of the things that make them what they are.” Edgar flashed one of his rare smiles. “And also keep a great number of weapon-men at my beck and call.”
This boy had indeed a sharp mind. There was no way of knowing what kind of king he would eventually become, but the beginning was promising. This self-assured youngster had demonstrated the understanding that he must at least acknowledge the discrete concerns of all the disparate parties whom he sought to rule, and this showed a maturity beyond his tender years. He was also aware of the need for military strength, to serve as a deterrent against dissent. But even if he had not, for Alvar, there was no turning back; after wrestling with his conscience he must honour his decision and he resolved never to break his oath again, come what may.
Edgar was still smiling.
Alvar wondered what it was that pleased him so. “My lord?”
Edgar shook his head. “I was merely thinking that I owe you many thanks. I foresee that I will oft-times need to call on you, not merely for your sword arm but also for your knowledge of my kingdom. Our bond gives strength to us both.”
After the intense concentration of the past few days, Alvar welcomed the levity. He laughed and tried a joke. “Let us hope that neither one of us ever feels fettered by a bond tied too tight.”
Edgar’s smile fell away. “Hmm. Indeed.”
Just for a moment, Alvar felt as he had when the last marauding Welshman had come at him and he had been caught with the wrong weapon, still stuck in the ground.
Ramsey, East Anglia
Alfreda sang quietly while she worked with the batches of wool. The rhythmic movement of the carding-combs moving back and forth in her hands was familiar from childhood and now, as then, she was soothed by the pulsing regularity of the action. She sat slightly apart from the other women. She was still unsure how much they knew or guessed and she wished neither to insult them by pretending, nor to reveal the truth if they were not already aware. Thus rendered dumb, she worked alone, speaking only when she needed some more wool to work on. She had almost finished the latest lot when she heard the shouting. She was always frightened by the yelling, but now her hand went quickly to her belly in an instinctively protective gesture. How tempting it was to stay here in the carding shed, to hide, let the storm pass. But Elwood liked her always to know what it was that had caused his anger so that she would know why she was being beaten for it. She knew she must go and the fear and urgency caused her to bark an order to one of the girls to take on her work as well as her own. “Here, take this. I must be with the l
ord Elwood.” As she hurried to the hall, she wondered briefly if her words had carried a haughty tone, but she had no space in her heart to take on more worries. As she ran, she wondered how it would be this time. Would he harm the unborn babe?
In the hall, her husband strode from mead-bench to side table and back again, shouting and jabbing his finger in the air. The Half-king was sitting in his great carved chair, nodding when the pauses in the rant required it, but saying nothing. Alfreda cast about for sanctuary, spotted Abbot Athelwold and went to stand beside him.
The abbot turned to acknowledge her presence, and answered her unspoken question. “Young Edgar has been named king of the Mercians and of the North and East. His brother holds only Wessex now.”
Alfreda was stupid. She knew this because Elwood told her it was so, but she struggled particularly with this information. “But how can that be a bad thing?” If the Fairchild’s kingdom had been thus reduced, then surely all those whom he’d advanced would be put back down and the likes of the Half-king would be restored to power and influence.
Athelwold smiled and patted her arm. “Since he became king, Edgar has not sent for his foster-brothers but is leaning instead on Alvar of Mercia.”
“Is he the one who was given the lands once held by the Half-king?”
“The same.”
And, if she understood it correctly, her husband considered those lands to be part of his birthright.
Elwood picked up an ale flagon and hurled it across the room. “How was this thing done? Edgar should have spoken to me about it, yet he said naught. How did he know where to go?”
The Half-king waited until a serving-boy had cleared the shards from the floor. “It was I who gave him the war gear. It was I who armed him. I thought his intention was to ride to Wessex.”
Elwood halted in mid-step and whirled around to face his father. “And you are proud of his treachery?”
The Half-king stood up and placed his hands upon the table. “I am, in that I have still helped Edgar safely to his kingship and thus fulfilled my oath to his mother. Now, I am going to acknowledge the creaking in my bones. It is my wish to leave this world and live out my days at Glastonbury Abbey.”
Elwood’s face throbbed scarlet. “You are going to do what?”
The Half-king stepped down from the dais and walked over to his son. “When you have done with your spluttering, you will understand that my leaving means that you are now earl of East Anglia. I spoke to Edgar on your behalf, and you will be the new lord. I have done this much for you, now I will do something else. I will ask you to think.” He gestured for his son to sit down and Elwood, still flushed, but now muted, obeyed.
The Half-king sat down next to him and said, “Edgar will not settle for half a kingdom. When he makes his move, do not let there be an uprising. If you do, you will allow Alvar and his ilk to hold sway. Do not let your wrath put you beyond reach of Edgar. He has been brought up to be pious and he has already recalled Abbot Dunstan from his banishment. He will need many good men about him, men whose strengths lie in other areas. Think hard about how you can be of use to him. There is more than one way to tan a hide.”
Elwood stuck out his bottom lip as if he were still a sulky child, but Alfreda thought that his father had been less blunt than he could have been. Elwood was no warrior, and would need to find some other way of becoming indispensable to Edgar.
Abbot Athelwold cleared his throat. “How many men does Edgar now have with him, my lord?”
The Half-king held up his cup and waited while the serving-boy filled it with ale. “Alvar has brought many weapon-men from Mercia, and Edgar has summoned yet more from over the sea.”
In a soothing voice obviously adopted to placate Elwood, who bent his neck as if his head were being stroked, the abbot said, “Well then, what is wrong with that? Is not the hall here at Ramsey often filled with great men of learning and traders who bring us wealth?”
The Half-king shook his head. “No, these are not the same. These are men from beyond the northern sea and they have been hired to steer ships. Edgar will have so many speaking into his ear that the trick will be to find the best way of being heard.” He shook his head, clearly still shocked by Edgar’s seeming ingratitude for all he owed this illustrious family. He clasped Elwood’s shoulder. “Come, lad, now you are calmer, let us finish this game that we started.” He led Elwood away to the gaming table, but Alfreda thought that the Half-king had been alluding to a game played on a much wider surface, one that covered the whole of England.
She lost her fight with the shudder that had been threatening her composure. The situation was also of great significance to her, though none would think of it. Edgar was gone and the Half-king had announced his plans to retire to a monastery. Who would protect her and her unborn child from its father’s petulant violence? She blinked quickly to prevent the newly formed tear from growing large enough to fall. Her husband and his kin were proud to consider themselves less the soldiers, more the statesmen. And yet these same men who set themselves above those they thought of as mere weapon-men were capable of immense cruelty. She sat back and wondered about this Alvar, falling into a reverie about the fearsome soldier who was portrayed as a throwback to a less sophisticated age and yet who had the whole of Mercia at his command and held the young king in thrall. In her mind-picture this supposedly uncultured oaf would never lay a hand upon his lady, being only attentive and kind, siring children who would be every inch as handsome as their father.
Athelwold touched her arm. “My dear, is all well?”
She turned to stare at him. “What?”
“You gave a great sigh. Naught is wrong with the bairn, is it?”
“No.” She raised her hand to shield the tell-tale redness of embarrassment. “I was brooding on what has been said. Could there be an uprising, do you think?”
Athelwold said, “It might come to that, yes.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The Fairchild is older than Edgar and already wed. If he and his wife have children, they will be more throne-worthy than Edgar. She is from a royal line; her forefathers were of Alfred’s kin and so their offspring would have higher atheling status than Edgar. He is too young yet to wed, so…” He held his palms up, his point made.
Alfreda remembered how Edgar had mentioned his need for a wife and his threats to steal her away from Elwood. I take whatever I want. “Somehow I do not think Edgar will let something like that stand in his way, Abbot.” Elwood was still at the gaming table, so Alfreda decided that she was not needed after all. She took her leave of Athelwold and stepped outside into the warm sunshine.
On days like this she could almost make herself believe that life here was not so bad. The cloudless sky stretched out above her and she wondered where it ended. It had not rained for some weeks and the ground felt comparatively firm under her feet. Looking out through the gateway, she saw that the causeway was sitting clear of the marsh, a sign of how low the water levels had sunk. Even the biting eastern wind had abated. Alfreda took pleasure where she could and decided not to return to the confines of the carding shed. It would still be there on the next rainy day.
Over by the enclosure boundary, Elwood’s youngest brother Brandon was standing with his back against the fence. His hands were tucked into his tunic belt and he was scuffing the ground with his boot, moving his leg from side to side, kicking up showers of dust. Alfreda watched him for a while, puzzled, for Brandon was not normally to be found alone and without a purpose. But then she mouthed a silent, “Ah, I see.” Little Brandon was now a shadow with no solid shape to mimic; he was lost without Edgar. A flicker of pity crossed her heart, but soon dissipated. None of them would be any the better for Edgar’s departure.
Strong fingers gripped her shoulder and she turned to face her husband. “You left the hall. I did not say you could.”
She dropped her gaze and stared at the ground. “I am sorry, my lord. I had thought that you were busy at the gaming board
and had no need of me.”
He gripped her arm. “Come, woman, and I will show you what my needs are.”
A butterfly movement in her belly awakened a brave defiance. “The bairn is kicking, my lord, so I would beg you…”
He reached with his free hand to jerk her chin up. “You would do better to beg the Almighty that this child is fair like me. If it should have the Devil’s dark eyes like yours I shall not bear to look upon it, much less name it as my own.”
She had seen many a bitch hound snarl and bite any who came close enough to pet her whelps and now she understood, for she would suffer no threats or insults to be cast at her child. She stared into his eyes, tried hard not to blink and said, “My son will not be throne-worthy but he will be high-born and he will be loved.”
He released her and fanned his fingers up and down in a gesture she recognised as an attempt to fight the urge to make a fist. He made as if to move away, but then he took a step back. “Why did you say that?”
“I said that my child…”
“No, no. About being throne-worthy, what made you say those words?”
She shrugged. “The abbot told me that the Fairchild’s wife can trace her line back to Alfred, so her children will be higher than Edgar in rank. He might have to take Wessex by force or lose it to his brother’s children.”
He closed his mouth, leaving the tip of his tongue visible between his lips. It remained there for a moment as his thought took shape. Then he said, “But what if someone could get Wessex for him, with no blood spilt? What if there were never any children born?” Elwood’s lips pulled back into an alarming snarling smile. “My father was right. It seems that there might, after all, be more than one way to tan a hide.”
Edgar’s Court, London
The woman, Eva, lay propped up on one elbow. Her milk-white hair fell across her face and she peered up at him with only one eye fully visible. “My lord, will you not lie back down? It is cold in here without you.” She parted her lips to smile and ran her tongue across the tips of her upper teeth.
Alvar the Kingmaker Page 4