Alvar the Kingmaker

by Annie Whitehead

  “They are about their work.” Emboldened, she attempted to tease him. Head bowed, but glancing up, she said, “We are not like the ladies of the kings’ houses, that we can sit about the whole day long.”

  “Once more, you are right.” He stood up. “No, indeed, you should not be sitting. Leave your besom where it is, for I left my men at Chester and they will not be here for some time.” He nodded towards the bedchamber. “Why sit about all day when you can lie down?”

  She wafted her sleeve in front of her face. In what she hoped was a sufficiently coy tone, she said, “But my lord, I was always taught that it was wrong to lie. Have you more to teach me?”

  She was gratified when he grinned. “Oh yes,” he said, taking her hand. “And I hope that you will not learn too swiftly, for I would not wish to stop until you are sure that lying is a good thing…”

  Now she was brave enough to speak her mind. “For you, my love, I will gladly be a slow learner.” Giggling, she allowed him to lead her to the bedchamber.

  The leaves in the summer canopy fluttered in the breeze and the sunlight mottled her hands. After a precautionary prayer full of apology, Káta took the cheese and bread from their cloth wrapping and laid them on the ground, pulled her kirtle and under-dress over her head and slipped her feet out of her shoes. She knelt down, leaned forward and scooped the water from the well-spring onto her upper body. Standing up, she wobbled as she dipped one foot then the other into the water. Her plea was silent; the food was a gift and the price of a promise that any child born after this day would never go hungry.

  Despite the heat of the day, she shivered and rolled her clothes into a ring to slip them over her head. With no Gytha to help her, she struggled to replace her veil and she held the material in her hands, lifted it halfway to her head again, and sighed. “I cannot be a true lady without a child to show my worth, so why do I have need to look like one?” She stuffed the veil into her basket. As she walked down the slope away from the well she pulled her back up straight, linked her arms in front of her and rocked the basket as if a child lay there. The old gods would decide and she would accept the decision, and hope that the true God would not be angry for her betrayal, but how could any heavenly being deny her on such a beautiful day?

  On the edge of the lane, the white-flowered ramsons thickened the air with their aroma of wild garlic. Káta put up a hand to shield her eyes against the afternoon sun. Moisture had formed on her top lip again, even so soon after bathing, and she brushed her sleeve over her face.

  She climbed into the field and stopped to press her feet into the grass. It sprang back straight away, growing strong in mud which was no longer waterlogged, and the confirmation of the arrival of summer made her smile.

  On the other side of the field, the breeze carried shouts and laughter from the river and Káta quickened her pace. On the riverbank, small children splashed their feet in the water by the edge and ran back to their mothers. Little boats bobbed in the deeper water, the occupants fishing for eels. The two young boys who lived in the little dwelling beyond the mill were standing in the shallows, scooping for minnows with crudely fashioned nets, and an older youth waited further down to stab at passing aquatic life with a sharpened stick. Mothers shouted warnings to children who swam near the far bank and Burgred, who had sheep in the field on the other side, leaned on his crook and kept a shepherd’s eye on those who strayed beyond shouting distance.

  Gytha, knee-deep in the water, was standing with her skirt hitched into her belt. She held a linen undershirt behind her head and she brought it forward, laughing as it smacked into the water and bubbled into a ball before it sank. Her blonde hair hung loose in wet ringlets and her cheeks glowed like ripening apples in the warming sun. She shouted up to Káta. “Will you come in with us, my lady? But you must swear not to throw water all over us this time.”

  Káta’s hot tired toes wiggled inside her shoes. She stepped forward. “I might help you to wring those…” She shook her head. “No, I cannot,” she said. “I am looking for my lord husband; I saw his horse in the paddock so I know that he is home. Have you seen him?”

  “Yes, my lady. The lords are further down, on the far bank, beyond the bro.”

  “Thank you, but you must say the bridge.” Káta walked on, stopped and backed up two steps. “Did you say lords? I must tell Leofsige that the lord of Chester will be sitting on our bench tonight. But I think he was boiling some lamb today and I do not think there will be time to set up the spit…”

  Gytha said, “No, my lady, it is not…”

  “No, you are right. Boiled meat it will have to be.” She walked on. More vegetables might make up for the lack of flavoursome meat. If she hurried back there would be time to soak some dried beans, or perhaps dig up some carrots. She crossed the wooden footbridge and her hips swung as she took longer strides along the west bank of the river. Would there be time to make a broth, or would Leofsige the cook have some already made that could be bulked out with pulses?

  Two piles of clothes lay near the water’s edge and she stopped. The garments had been discarded carelessly, but on top of them the swords and their belts had been placed with precision, to sit proud of the dirt and grass. Both scabbards were leather-covered but one, which she recognised as Helmstan’s, was lined with wool, whilst the other had a fur lining, was finely decorated, and housed a sword with a jewelled hilt.

  Helmstan’s voice rose up from below the high bank. “Ha! Lord or no lord, I nearly beat you that time.”

  Káta had no desire to discomfit the lord Greybeard of Chester, who was nearly fifty and apparently naked. She felt the embarrassment of the intruder and turned to go home the long way.

  “Kat? Dearling? Is it you up there?”

  Her foot in mid-step, she turned a circle and brought her hand up in greeting, but a flush rose to her face, reminding her that her head was bare, and she let her arm fall and snatched her veil from the basket. A hairpin jabbed her finger as she flung the cloth over her hair. The breeze caught her dress and she twisted to hold it with her elbow as she struggled with her veil. She straightened up and held her breath, as if that might stop the blood rising to her cheeks, for her husband was not swimming with the Greybeard, but with a man less than half that age.

  The young man was grinning at her, evidently amused by her struggles with the swathes of material. His gaze remained steady upon her as Helmstan shouted his introduction.

  “This is my friend, the lord Alvar.”

  At last, she was to meet her husband’s oldest friend and it was not the most propitious setting in which to greet such a mighty lord. And, worse, Káta found herself staring like some low-born Chester whore at Alvar’s upper body, at the fine down of chest hair visible above the water. Helmstan’s black chest hair always lay like a hound’s coat in the water, the muscles beneath it solid, moving as one. The contours of this man’s skin changed with each lithe movement. The only similarity was the crisscross of scars on the arms and shoulders, but then he, too, must spend at least as many hours fighting, training and hunting. How could she be so bold, to take in so much with one look, when she had scarcely been brave enough to look upon her husband thus after over a year of being wed? She looked up, where it was safer to gaze, to notice that the earl’s hair fell in light-brown waves, the wet ends touching the skin of his shoulders. She focused on his lips, which were not as full as Helmstan’s, and then his face, which was less rounded. But still a wicked devil, one that she hadn’t known even to be dwelling within her, wondered what remained hidden from her view, below the water line. Appalled at herself, Káta took a deep breath. Chicken broth, there was some broth left over from last night. If she ran back and told Leofsige, he could boil it up again with some barley and herbs. “My lords, forgive me. I will go back to the hall and I will see to it that food and drinks are on hand for you when you come back.”

  “No, Dearling, bide where you are. We are coming out now and can go with you back to the hall.”

&nbs
p; She looked about for somewhere to hide, deciding on the trunk of a willow a few feet away. But with great fuss and waves and splashes, they had already begun to haul themselves from the water.

  She turned her back and her face burned, whilst behind her they squelched up onto the bank.

  Helmstan rumbled out his friendly-bear laugh. “It looks to me that in some things, all men are the same, my lord.”

  “Ah, but tales can grow in the telling…” Alvar’s voice rang higher, a wolf-call, sharper, leaner.

  Grunts and stumbles told of their struggle to pull their clothing on over their wet bodies, where normally they would have lain naked in the sunshine to dry off.

  She hummed, but could still hear the teasing.

  “See how I have to stretch my breeches to make them fit over my…”

  “Belly? Is that the word you are seeking?”

  Káta took a step away from the bank, hummed louder and opened her mouth to sing.

  “We are dressed and fit to be looked upon now,” Helmstan said.

  At last. She turned, but kept her head low. Alvar was lying on the grass, his upper body propped up on one elbow, one long leg bent and the other straight. He looked up with a hint of a smile that showed no trace of the humorous exchanges moments before. It was a smile which she found impossible to interpret and she wanted him to stop it.

  She met his gaze and held it long enough to greet him properly. “Lord Alvar, I welcome you to Ashleigh.”

  He inclined his head, and, the moment his smile faded, she wanted it to come back again.

  “Lady Káta, I must ask your forgiveness. I thought that the water would be cooling after a hard ride. Who could know that the thing would turn into a show of swimming strength?”

  Helmstan patted the grass next to him. “Sit, my love, until we are dry. I would sooner not stride back with these wet breeches sticking to my legs.”

  She lowered herself to the ground, but her foot caught on her hem. She stood up and lifted her kirtle to her ankles. Sitting down once more, she wriggled to ease the folds of cloth under her until they formed a comfortable seat, shifting again when the grass tickled her leg.

  Helmstan said, “Lord Alvar has been in Chester on King Edgar’s behalf and craves a meal with us before he goes home to Gloucestershire.”

  Káta tried one last time to hook her dress round. “And will you sleep the night with us, my lord?”

  “I would be glad to do so.”

  She forgot the struggle with her skirts. There was no trace left of his smile and she blushed at the thought that she had missed a hidden meaning. She found a blade of grass unlike any other and studied it until she felt sure that her cheeks were pale again.

  Alvar said to Helmstan, “Tell me; how often have the Welsh come over into Cheshire lately? If you have one weapon-man for every five hides of land, could you spare more if they were needed? If we had to go and fight in the south…”

  Forgotten, Káta stretched out her fingers and ran them through the grass. In amongst the pliant blades the tougher stems of the daisies offered resistance and she reached around for more. After threading them into a chain she looked for buttercups and clover to add to the necklace. She stared at the ground long after she had all she needed and when it was time to leave, she looked up. The men were already on their feet and Alvar offered her his hand.

  He said, “That is a pretty thing.” The smile was no more than a gentle curve, yet still it lit his eyes.

  She thrust the flowers behind her back. “Oh, it was but child’s play.”

  He kept his hand outstretched and beckoned with curled fingers. She had to reach out or offend him, so, with the habit of a lifetime, she kept her right hand hidden behind her back while she offered him her left and, as he pulled her upright with a hand no warmer, no stronger, no less calloused than her husband’s, a tingle travelled along her arm to arrive as a flutter in her belly.

  At the river bank, with the sun behind her, he had not been able to determine the colour of her eyes. It had not mattered; her high cheekbones and delicate chin shaped a face that was so appealing that when she drew near enough, even though her eyes were downcast, he would have handed his heart to her like money to an armed thief for one kiss on her bow-shaped lips.

  Tonight, in the firelight of their mead-hall, her eyes had shone cornflower-blue. Yet she had appeared only briefly at the feast table, fretting about the state of the pottery in a voice which remained little more than a whisper, like a breeze too scared to blow until the rain arrived to bolster its strength. Then she had disappeared to the bedchamber at the end of the hall. In response to Alvar’s enquiry after her health, Helmstan had merely muttered that she might have found that she was once again lacking something she craved.

  The great hearth in the centre of the hall burned with less enthusiasm now; sleeping men breathed in smoky air and blew it out stale. Helmstan’s eyes closed and his head lolled forward and jerked up again.

  Alvar nudged him. “Why do you not go and find your lovely wife?”

  “No, I will sleep here with my men. She will wish to be on her own, if she is not with ch…” Helmstan’s head went back and he sank a little in his chair. A snort came from the back of his throat and his hand slipped from the table.

  So, that was the reason for the lady’s sad demeanour. She craved a child. Alvar laid a hand on his sleeping friend’s arm, squeezing it gently before patting and releasing it.

  The servants began to tidy away the empty trestle tables and Alvar looked around to see if there was a spare length of bench along the walls where he could lie down. A small dog, too puny to be used for hunting, sniffed round the far side of the table for scraps. Alvar held out a lamb bone and the animal came to him and licked it.

  “Well, hound, is that good?” He scratched behind its ears as he mused that Helmstan would still be better sleeping with his fair-looking wife than with his men. Comradeship, forged while men spent the day hunting and enjoyed nights at the mead-bench, formed the bonds that held communities together. A lord gained much respect by staying with his men; status within the group was everything, and worth dying for. Alvar had given up a lot in service to the king and in his role as a warrior, but he wondered if he would forgo the opportunity to share a bed with such a beguiling woman. He sighed. The dog looked up, its tongue hanging from the side of its mouth. Alvar bent nearer to its ear and whispered. “And she is fair-looking, you know.” Helmstan had spoken the truth in calling her beautiful.

  Standing in a state of agitation with her clothing in disarray, she had presented a vision of a woman utterly devoid of the preening habits of the ladies at court, and it was refreshing to see. She obviously eschewed such niceties when she was on her own manor, and was caught out looking vulnerable only because she knew that by going bare-headed she was flouting convention. Unlike many of the women of his acquaintance, she was embarrassed at the sight of him and he, likewise, was mortified to be seen naked. Such a thing would not normally have bothered him, any more than it worried his female companions, yet he had been uncomfortable to be found thus in Káta’s presence. So much so that he made a complete goose of himself with his stupid remark about the flowers. Since when was he so tongue-tied around women? Somehow it mattered so terribly much that Helmstan’s wife should think well of him.

  The dog licked his outstretched fingers. Alvar recalled how a jagged scar traced a diagonal line across the back of Káta’s right hand, from the heel of her thumb to the joint of her little finger. It had been visible while she fought with her veil, but as soon as she could, she had pulled her sleeve over it and lowered her arm by her side. It was so swiftly done that he was left in no doubt that she had done it many times before, a habit born of self-consciousness. He had wondered briefly how she had come to bear such a mark, but he would no more ask her, or indicate that he had noticed by asking Helmstan, than he would dream of taunting Dunstan about his stammer.

  Alvar stretched and yawned. No man had held a sword to his back
, or forced him to go with Edgar and, now that he knew it was the right thing to do, he had no reason to feel discontent, beyond an itch to get back to what he knew best and put his sword and spear to good use. But there was something… He knew his purpose, he knew his duty, but somehow he had lifted the cup of promise and found it to be empty. Where was the reward; what was it that he was fighting for? There was nothing to soothe his soul, to give him personal succour, beyond serving the king. And as a soldier, he’d always thought that would be sufficient. Around the hall even the remaining whispered conversations stalled as men drifted into slumber. He looked at Helmstan, snoring gently in his chair, felt his own arms and legs growing heavy, and a creeping desire to sink into the deepest slumber. Helmstan, so loyal to the men who served him, so bound up in his Mercian cause, yet with a welcoming hearth and a lovely woman, had less, but seemed to deserve and appreciate it more. Alvar recalled Helmstan’s comment that Káta would not fit in at court, and now he had seen for himself that from here, London swirled like an adder’s nest, while this hall brought to mind the stillness of a mill pond.

  The dawn light spread round the edges of the shutters. Alvar side-stepped through the tumble of sleeping bodies and sniffed his way to the latrine. In the enclosure, the insistent cockerel agitated the hungry hounds with its breakfast call. Stiff from having dozed all night in the chair, Alvar shivered in the dewy dampness and lengthened his pace along the path which led away from the house. At the edge of the woods he stopped and looked about to decide the more interesting route.

  The undergrowth crackled and the leaves shushed and hushed. Helmstan’s wife stepped from between the trees, pulling small twigs from her gown, and put a hand up to smooth her veil. She straightened up, saw him, looked left and right and turned towards the field.

  In two steps he was level with her. “Lady Káta?”

  She stopped, but did not look up. “My lord, I beg you to forget that you have seen me here this morning. I have no right to ask this of you, but…”