Alvar leaned towards her and put his hand on her cheek. Her skin was as soft as Persian silk and the hair, swept back by his touch, released the gentle fragrance of rosemary. “Your offer is hard to ignore…” He took a deep breath, swung his legs over the side of the bed and picked up his breeches from the floor. “But I am needed at the witan meeting.” He gestured to the window. “Here is the sun, though, so you will soon be warm.”
She pushed her bottom lip forward and settled back on the pillows. As the light from the window penetrated the room she swam her fingers in front of her face and said, “Pretty motes, but not hard enough to hold. It was not a shaft of sunlight I wanted.”
Alvar snorted a laugh, stood up and adjusted his tunic. He blew a kiss over his shoulder, left the bedchamber and took the stairs two at a time.
Elwood of Ramsey turned his head at the thumping descent and his cheeks flushed red.
Alvar placed his hand on the newel-post and leaped over the last three steps, landing close to Elwood. He sought to assure the East Anglian that he was not the subject of the joke. “I was laughing at something Eva said.” Alvar put his hands on his lower back and stretched up, grinning.
Elwood’s mouth shrank into a creased round, drawing wrinkles from his cheeks until his face resembled the tightly pulled rumpled hide around the drawstring of an otter-skin bag. He took a step closer to Alvar and said, “That woman is a whore.”
Alvar’s smile dropped and he sniffed. Half empty ale jugs crowded the side tables, but the lord of Ramsey’s breath smelled clean. The man was sober as a saint.
Elwood’s mouth moved as if his tongue were reacting to some unseen poison. “Bad enough that Edgar should give you one of only two bedrooms, but I thought we had left lewdness behind at his brother’s court?” Elwood stalked off, to pause and admire one of the new wall-hangings.
Helmstan wandered over. “What? Does Ramsey not wish to hear the words of a woman well laid?” He covered his mouth in mock concern and then laughed. “Or is it worse? Was she not well laid?” He slapped Alvar playfully on the shoulder.
But Alvar shook his head. Was it possible that another man could envy him so much simply because he had been given a separate chamber? “I feel as if I am in the shield wall and have stepped forward with the left leg.”
“He has you on the wrong foot? He is a man who rarely smiles, so do not take it to your heart. It may be that he does not care for Eva and her ilk.”
Alvar nodded. “I think that the lord of Ramsey cares for few women.” He turned to face his friend. “Not like you, then, still warm from your wedding bed and grinning. And yet you do not bring your lovely wife to court to meet us. Is she too shy?”
Helmstan nodded. “As it happens, she is indeed shy. She would come if I asked her, but I do not ask. I love her too much to have her suffer your crude manners.”
Alvar feigned indignation. “What do you mean? I know how to speak to a pretty woman.”
“Yes, but only to ask them into the nearest bed. My lady would be hard pressed then, knowing how to say no.”
Alvar grinned. “Most of them struggle to say no, so strongly are they drawn to me.”
Helmstan adopted an expression of mock pity and laid his hand gently on Alvar’s arm. “No, my friend. She would struggle because she knows it is rude to tell an earl to stick his ugly head in a water butt.”
Alvar laughed and thumped Helmstan on the shoulder. He waved his arm in a wide arc. “But, she is missing a treat; look at this wonderful new building.”
Away from the stairwell, only a few men remained in the hall, most of the nobles having moved along to the meeting chamber at the far end of the building. Beyond the open doorway, the tree-wrights in the yard were sawing the freshly coppiced wood, and inside, a carpenter ambled by with an armful of planks. A ladder lay propped against a wall where a small section of daub plaster remained bare, even though several embroidered cloths had already been hung. The carpenter sniffed his disapproval that the lime-wash had not been finished, although he seemed in no hurry to reach his own area of incomplete floorboards. A plump-faced bishop walked through the doorway, his arms folded in front of him, hands hidden in his sleeves. He took short steps so that although he moved forward his robes did not touch his legs, giving him the appearance of floating. Alvar smiled. Dunstan, reinstated not as abbot but elevated to bishop of Worcester, carried himself as if born to the role. “My lord Dunstan, do you fare well this bright morning?” He waited as the newly appointed bishop moved his mouth in preparation.
As he walked, Bishop Dunstan dropped his lower jaw, resting it on the cushioning fold of flesh beneath his chin. His head bobbed forward and his large ears began to redden from the exertion. “It is c-c-colder than I would like…” He worked his mouth again in silence.
Alvar fingered one of the wall-hangings, feeling along the stitching as if keen to know how the thing had been fashioned.
Dunstan drew level with Elwood. “B-but now that I am back I must make do, for I will not g-go over the sea again.” He flashed a glare at Alvar over his shoulder.
Helmstan shook his head. “The stammer gets worse. He had reached Elwood by the time he was able to speak.”
Alvar disagreed. “No, I think he never meant to speak to me. All the time I have been in London, the bishop has snubbed me at every turn, but I do not know why. Come, we should go into the meeting.”
Alvar slid his thumbs through his belt and Helmstan hummed softly as they followed Dunstan and Elwood into the meeting chamber.
Elwood had his hand on the bishop’s shoulder. He glanced back at Alvar and smiled as if he had just made the winning move on the gaming table.
Alvar could not understand the animosity; he did not recall ever challenging Elwood at the gaming board, even symbolically. Elwood raised a hand to wave to his brothers in the chamber, threw one last scowl at Alvar and went to join them. Dunstan turned his head and held Alvar’s gaze for a moment before he glided to his seat next to Edgar.
Helmstan stopped humming and let out a low whistle. “Look at all these fine folk.”
Alvar followed the direction of his stare to the ladies who had flocked with their newly ennobled husbands, and now found places to stand near the windows where the sunlight lit up their rich silk kirtles.
Helmstan said, “My wife would no more feel at home here than if a cow were to be lowered into a snake pit.”
Alvar murmured a vague response, wondering why Helmstan would denigrate his wife by intimating that she would compare unfavourably with these beautiful ladies. Then he looked around the room, thought again about Helmstan’s exact words and realised that it was meant as a compliment, that Helmstan’s wife had better things to do than fawn and flutter and be seen in all the right places. And now, all jokes aside, Alvar’s interest was ignited and he was keen to meet this intriguing woman.
But that would have to wait for another time, and he shifted his gaze from the women to look at the newest arrivals. Edgar had wasted no time in using his East Anglian contacts to good effect, but these Scandinavians were not merchants but mercenaries. The boy was taking his kingship seriously; these men had been imported to build and sail a new fleet, and Alvar could only hope that the new ships would be used in the national interest only, and that the young king had heeded his advice to treat the Northumbrians and Danes with respect.
As well as the elegant ladies and the foreigners, the churchmen also brought colour to the scene with their opulent clothing. The archbishop of Canterbury was an old man who looked as if he had cheated death for a decade or more, but his chasuble was of expensive silk, with gold bordering, and his shoulders were swathed in layers of the finest fur.
Alvar took his leave of Helmstan, who went to sit with his lord the Greybeard of Chester, and made his way to the top table, replying with hand gestures behind his back to the good-natured mocking from the Mercian contingent.
“He cannot remember to shave, but he can find his way to the king’s bench.”
Alvar, laughing, took his seat next to Edgar and tried to adopt a more serious expression. “Lord King, you wanted to see me?”
The boy-king stared into the middle distance. His clear skin was contoured only where a thin beginning of a line traced its way vertically from his brow to the bridge of his nose. He gestured towards the document on the table in front of him and said, “Your thegns tell me that we must take great care with the wording in this land gift.” He pushed the document towards Alvar. “I have already given this man the turf so I do not see why such care is needed with the writing of it.”
Edgar’s fingers drummed the table, but he kept his head tilted with his ear close to Alvar’s mouth.
But if Edgar was keen to listen to anything that might increase his knowledge, Dunstan was impatient to get to other business. “Lord King, it is a small thing and is best left to the scribes to deal with.”
Alvar felt a dull tarnish finally settle on the sheen of his good mood, so expertly buffed to gleaming by Eva’s attentions. The bishop seemed determined to contradict his every word, but Alvar knew that Helmstan would never forgive him if he did not at least set the cleric straight on this one subject.
He said, “To men of Wessex, all other land is the north, a great swathe of land where kings have seldom ridden. But those beyond Wessex do not think themselves as one lump. The Danes, to name but one folk, are well settled but they are, even so, Danish. In Mercia, most men do not think themselves to be English, but dwellers in an old kingdom that in days gone by made its own laws and named its own kings.”
Dunstan grunted and said in a quiet voice, “They would do better to help us in our aim to bring holiness back to this land.”
Alvar ignored him and leaned forward, the better to direct his words to the young king. “The land in Herefordshire which you gifted to my thegn is in the land of an ancient tribe, a proud folk who have lived in this land since the Angles and Saxons first came over the sea. If you are seen to allow the ancient land-edges and the old-rights therein, then your folk will love you well.” He handed the vellum back to the king.
Edgar said, “You are knowledgeable indeed, my lord Alvar. I am grateful.”
Dunstan made a strange spluttering noise.
Edgar stared again at the writing and handed it back to his scribe. “That will do well; you may write the rest now.”
The scribe bowed and backed away.
Alvar sat back and breathed in the clean smell of new timber. He was aware of Dunstan’s glower, but kept him in his periphery and refused to turn his head to meet the hot stare.
Edgar said, “Wine, lord Bishop?” He clicked his fingers.
Now Alvar looked across and it was clear from the dismissive wave of the hands that Dunstan was keen to get started.
“We have pressing business.”
The two exchanged glances. Alvar watched them, unsure how to read their expressions. He tried to remember the nature of the day’s business and assumed that his memory of it had been washed away by the ale that Eva had served him all the previous evening. Again he wondered how he had got to this place, he who had never paid attention in witan meetings and was now expected to add his voice to weighty decisions. He still felt like a fraud. Even here in London, away from his brother Brock and wearing his own shoes, he was unsure of his footing. On the battlefield, he knew where to place each step, to keep his balance as he wielded his weapons, but this was new, requiring not a sharp spear point but a sharp mind, and it seemed a long journey from the training yard to the inner circle of government. Dunstan stood up and Alvar sat forward, ready to listen.
Bishop Dunstan cleared his throat and the chattering subsided. “My lords,” he raised his sleeve to wipe away spittle, “It is the wish of our b-b-beloved archbishop of Canterbury that I speak for him about something which has lain heavy on our hearts and minds.”
Alvar looked with all the others to the seat by the hearth. The archbishop gripped his fur cloak around his shrunken frame like a second skin. His head, bald except for the tufts of hair which grew seemingly from his ears, hung forward as if it really were too heavy for his neck to bear the weight. His eyes gleamed vital, but cold.
Dunstan said, “It grieves us that the king in Wessex, the Fairchild, is living sinfully with a wife to whom his kinship is too near. Therefore we have sent to his Holiness, the pope, to have the match undone.”
“What?” Alvar gripped the edge of the table and sat up straight. A cup tottered and he reached out to hold it, choked, round its stem. He addressed Edgar. “Lord King, you cannot. Theirs is a love match.” Was this really the business of grown men who thought to rule a kingdom? “What good will be done by this heartlessness?”
Edgar’s breathing was rapid and shallow but he kept his gaze fixed on the far wall. Alvar shook his head and stared at the bishop.
Dunstan prepared himself for speech once more. He dropped his jaw and puffed out shots of breath. “Lewdness cannot be sanctioned. We are all of one mind.”
Alvar looked around the room for verification of this assertion, but only the East Anglians and the churchmen sat upright, alert and interested, while the rest of the witan members were sitting with heads bowed, or stared at the ceiling, or gazed out of the window, as if any sight were preferable to looking at Dunstan and being drawn into his scheme. All of one mind?
Alvar slammed his palms down on the table. “Are we? It seems that most men here think that for the Fairchild to lose half a kingdom was enough. I did not think the Church would needlessly seek to harm him further.”
Elwood of Ramsey said, “You are new to the ways of the witan so I will tell you that we do not speak thus to our beloved bishops. You should take care, lest you earn yourself a bad name.”
“For what; plain-speaking?” Alvar looked at Dunstan, hoping that the bishop would answer his earlier question.
Dunstan held his hands out as if there were nothing more to be said or done.
Alvar persisted. “But what will become of his young wife; does she have land of her own? What has she to do with a fight between two brothers? She does not even have any children to bring her comfort in her loneliness.”
Elwood let slip a small smile, as if victorious. “And that is the point…” He stopped and composed his features into a scowl. “That is a good thing. She is no better than a whore. And you are a whore-monger if you speak on her behalf.”
“I take it you think that she will be better clothed in widow’s weeds?” Alvar glared at Elwood’s brothers, both of whom were nodding emphatically.
The second-eldest, the lord of Thetford, said, “The Fairchild must give her up.”
Brandon, the youngest, said, “It must be as my brother says.” His smooth cheeks glowed and he clenched his fists, but his gaze remained fixed downwards. His pale long lashes beat quickly below purplish lids.
Alvar ground his back teeth together and, under the table, out of sight, his hands clenched and unclenched while his foot tapped in quick beats upon the floor. This was not what he came for; this was not what was promised. At least on a battlefield there could be a fair fight, with each man knowing who the enemy was. He did not like the scheming of politics. He looked again at Dunstan. “Lord Bishop, you say that all the churchmen are as one on this, but what of our friend the bishop of Winchester?”
Dunstan wrinkled his nose. “I am glad that you asked me that. Your friend, the bishop of Winchester, stayed with the Fairchild and your elder brother in Wessex instead of coming here to stand with Edgar. But even had he come here, he could not speak on such matters. As a wedded man, he remains a shameful stain upon the Church.” He frowned. “The good name of your kin is besmirched by this friendship. Take care that it does not d-drag you down.”
“Is that a threat? I make my friends where I will, lord Bishop, and not at any man’s behest.”
“You should be…” Dunstan, alerted by a strange sound, glanced over to the hearth. The ar
chbishop’s head bobbed up and down as a rattling cough faltered, unable to rise above his chest. Alvar watched Dunstan’s face, wondering if in fact he was concerned for the frail old man, or merely waiting for the archbishop to hurry up and die.
King Edgar spoke in a low voice, assuring attention. “I think that we must wait for the pope’s word on this and turn to other things now, my lords.”
Alvar followed the king’s lead and lowered his voice. “My lord, may I have one last word? This annulment might push the Fairchild too far; he agreed to the carving up of the kingdom but if he were to lose his wife might he not fight back?”
Edgar shrugged. “That’s what I’ve got you for.”
Elwood of Ramsey laughed shrilly and said, “It will not happen, my lord.”
Alvar looked at the East Anglian. The man looked panic-stricken and it seemed to Alvar that his assurance to the king sounded more like a prayer of hope than an avowal of certain truth.
He was alone in the meeting chamber. Most folk were lying in the hall, to sleep or hold their over-indulged bellies, or else were playing at the gaming boards by the light of the hall’s great hearth. Helmstan had ridden home to his lovely bride, unable to bear the separation any longer. Less than a twelve-month had passed since Alvar witnessed the same deep devotion shared by the Fairchild and his bride. Naught had been said of their close kinship before their wedding day. It was only when… Yes, it was only when Dunstan found the boy in bed with his bride and her mother. He’d threatened them with the wrath of the Almighty and the Fairchild banished him. Alvar sighed and sat forward to warm his hands by the fire. The early summer evenings were still cool and not all of the new shutters were a snug fit at the windows. He stared into the flames. So now Dunstan was back and wanted his revenge, and how better than to destroy the marriage? The strategy had been revealed as a means by which to ensure that Edgar remained sole heir to the whole kingdom, but nevertheless, delight was being taken in the shameful settling of old scores. He shook his head. There would be a great sorrow wreaked in the name of spite.
Alvar the Kingmaker Page 5