Dunstan was keen to get back to civilisation and make a start at his archbishopric. The lord of Mercia was a relic of a barbarous age and had no sense that these would be years of peace, of laws and learning and religious reform. Reform, in particular. Dunstan was a besom, twitching to sweep into all the corners of the old regime at Canterbury. He still offered up daily thanks that God had seen fit to clear the path for him. He also felt guilty daily for the sin of pride he’d experienced when Winchester was appointed. He had been suffused with gratitude when Edgar overrode the decision and then he suffered guilt once more, for it felt as though he were profiting from Winchester’s unfortunate accident. The urge to get to Canterbury and prove himself worthy was overwhelming, but Edgar had insisted on some hunting before he left the fertile Severn valley and Dunstan shivered astride his horse, and could for now only dream of his new church and all that his being there would allow him to achieve. He had long harboured an ambition that monks from his old abbey at Glastonbury would build and colonise new monasteries, proper monasteries; the religious communities clustered around the shrines and resting places of saints did not adhere to the rule of St Benedict and had never, in Dunstan’s opinion, constituted monastic institutions. Monks trained in his new houses would provide a pool in which to fish for all future bishops, all known to him and eminently suitable for the posts. He shook his head. The more he thought about his plans, the more it irked him to be stuck in this freezing field.
If Dunstan felt uncomfortable, Oswald looked even worse. Black robes flapping out behind him did not mask the shivering. The October sky was cloudless and the sun shone brightly, but the overnight ground frost had lingered and it was a bitter wind that blew. Dunstan knew that he was a rarity; a lord who disliked hunting, but he was keen to leave Mercia as soon as he could. It was time to move on, not to stay where memories of the recently departed king still cast shadows. Why had the Fairchild even been here? It could not have been at Edgar’s invitation, for Edgar had not mentioned it to Dunstan, who was, after all, supposed to be his foremost adviser. He looked across at Alvar, sitting upright with a hawk on his arm. Yes, he, Dunstan, was the foremost advisor, despite what others might think. Dunstan was aware of the rumours that were now circulating. The Fairchild died in Alvar’s province. Dunstan had condemned Alvar many a long year ago as a reveller, fornicator and worse, but there the list of crimes ended. He was no murderer. So why had the Fairchild been lured to Mercia, and by whom; had the sole intention been to besmirch Alvar’s name?
Edgar’s hawk had caught a sparrow and brought it back. A thegn brought down yet another with his bow and arrow and, since his girdle now had six dead birds hanging from it, he added this latest to Edgar’s stack. Dunstan experienced a bilious taste in his mouth and he turned his head from the pile of feathered corpses. He was relieved that what he saw as too large a pile of bodies was deemed to be just enough for the rest of the hunting party and when the shout went up that it was time to retire to the hut, he welcomed the chance to dismount and have a warming drink.
He settled himself by the fire and allowed the young thegns to fuss round him, as they laid a fur blanket over his lap and ensured that food and drink were left on a table close to where he was sitting. Edgar, slapping friends on the shoulder, sharing a joke with others, gradually made his way to join Dunstan by the hearth. After a few solicitous enquiries after the archbishop’s health, the young man coughed and tried to settle his voice into its newly acquired lower register.
“There is a young woman who has caught my eye but I need your help.”
Dunstan shifted in his seat. In what possible way could he be of assistance in the procuring of a woman? He lifted his cup to his lips.
Edgar continued. “You know of the lady Wulfreda?”
Dunstan forced the sip of liquid back into the cup, fearful that if he swallowed, he might choke. “That lady is given to the Church. She is not for you.”
Oswald came to join them, carefully spreading out his robes before sitting, hands neatly placed in his lap. Edgar acknowledged him with a nod, but continued to press Dunstan. “She is high-born, though is she not?”
“Yes, my lord, she is. But…”
Oswald leaned forward. “Of whom do we speak?”
Dunstan explained that Edgar had taken a fancy to the lady Wulfreda, but that she was promised to the Church and might very soon take her vows.
Oswald nodded. “High-born, though, you say?”
“The highest. She is, indeed, throne-worthy. Her mother and father were…”
Oswald laid a hand on his arm and repeated the phrase. “Throne-worthy, you say? A waste, then, maybe, to give her life to the Church. Whilst we would always welcome those few chaste women who will give their lives to God, there might be a better way in which she could serve Him.”
Dunstan opened his mouth to reply, but found he stumbled over the sound he wanted to make. Unable for now to formulate the words to tell Edgar to proceed with caution and subtlety, he merely nodded his assent.
Edgar squeezed him on the knee before he stood up, nodded to Oswald, and turned back to his younger friends.
Oswald smiled. “We must do whatever we can to free this lady from her vows. Edgar is the son of a king. If his wife were throne-worthy, too, then their children would be, hmm, what is the word?”
Undisputed? Legitimate? Sinfully begotten? Dunstan remained tight-lipped. Not just because the words wouldn’t come but because the nasty taste was back.
Oswald seemed unperturbed by the archbishop’s silence. He sat back and put his hands precisely in the centre of his lap. “Whilst we are speaking of giving boons, I would beg one of you. I would like a ship-soke in Mercia.”
Of course he would. The land here was fertile and all the churches very rich. A ship-soke consisting of three hundred hides of land would yield a fortune. But it was not within Dunstan’s power to grant such a request. He shook his head. “I-it is not for me to say. You would need to ask the king.”
Oswald scratched his chin. “I had thought of this. I think that if the king were to get the lady whom he craves, then he might be grateful. The king must always be grateful for what is done in his name by those who love him.”
Dunstan tilted his head to one side as he scrutinised his newly appointed bishop. “You have not lost sight of our aims, I hope? By which I m-mean, to reform the Church?”
The Dane stared back at him, unblinking. “Oh, I have not forgotten.”
Dunstan sipped again from his cup. If he promised to shrive Edgar for any sin involved in removing Wulfreda from the Church, thus allowing Edgar to produce undisputed heirs, the youngster would undoubtedly be grateful and would not hesitate to grant the lands in Mercia to Oswald. But what about these other things done in his name? Oswald would not be in Worcester had Dunstan not vacated it… Nay, been able unexpectedly to vacate it. With a sideward glance at Oswald he wondered, for a moment, whether the price for his reforms might not be too high. A shout went up at the other end of the hut. Alvar was holding the drinking horn up for Edgar, who, under the earl’s influence, seemed all too willing to indulge in drunkenness. The lord of Mercia was watching and smiling, with the same frivolous grin that Dunstan had seen on that shameful day when the Fairchild made mockery of the solemnity of his coronation day. Dunstan ground his teeth together. No; the truth might have dawned, but that dawn had beauty in it yet, and it lit the road to Canterbury.
Part II – Weaxung (The Waxing)
Chapter Five AD961
The Vale of York
As Alvar came away from York with his small band of retainers he looked briefly to the far north, thinking again about the bleak landscape of Stainmore. He wondered where exactly it was that the notorious Erik Blood-axe had lost his life after the earl of Bamburgh chased him there from Viking York and put an end to Danish rule in the city. Only seven years had passed since then, and Alvar had been relieved to find that commerce and stable governance had been so swiftly revived. His meetings with the no
bles of the north had gone well. He had travelled to both parts of the old kingdom, from York eastward to the coast, and then up to the ancient fortress at Bamburgh, where he met the heads of all the leading families. Understandably wary at first, they had listened to his testimony. He told them that he had been sworn to the Fairchild but had been swayed by the personal strengths of Edgar. He showed them copies of detailed land charters which demonstrated that Edgar was prepared not only to reward loyalty, but to respect ancient land boundaries and tribal borders. They had welcomed him then; he smiled as he recalled in particular the hospitality of one northern lady. She was the sister of Oslac, a man so big and ursine of gait that he was known to all as the bear, or Beorn. He was a nobleman of the southern portion of the old kingdom who would one day make a fine earl. Alvar was on his way home to tell Edgar so. And, just as when he sang Edgar’s praises in the north, his personal recommendation would add weight to his words now to Edgar, for Alvar and Beorn had become great friends. Beorn kept his head shorn, but joked that even without the extra height of hair, he looked down upon the Mercian, which amused Alvar because few men were taller than he. Like all hearth-companions, he enjoyed a play on words, and Beorn’s shaven head meant that he was a bare bear. Beorn’s hall was in the heart of Deira, in the vale of York, which seemed permanently to be swathed in mist that swirled dank and cold and rivalled the fenland in the east for the honour of being named wettest and most miserable in all the old kingdoms. Yet Beorn’s hearth always burned bright and homely, and whether his sister was there or not, Alvar had always felt at home.
They rode on through the fertile valley. The route would eventually take them down the old Foss Way, bearing south until Alvar could link up with another great road cut by the Romans, following Watling Street to the west to get back to his own house in Gloucestershire. He had been away for many months. He shifted in the saddle, weary and numb. Thoughts of a warm hearth and good company began to call out louder than those of his little-used home at Upper Slaughter. Edgar’s bold but competent law-making heralded a belief that these times of peace were likely to last. Of course, such peace was further guaranteed by those who, unlike the fyrd, stood ready to fight at a moment’s notice: mercenaries, the fleet, and agents like himself. But, in such times of peace, the fyrd was not called out and he reflected with self-reproach that because of that, he had not seen his friend Helmstan for some time. Signalling to the men, he urged his horse onward at speed to Nottingham, from where he knew there was a road to Chester.
Her husband leaped up when he saw Lord Alvar arrive. Káta, who, only moments before, had been happily absorbed in a conversation about her plans for planting a new herb garden, now found that her hand, held until that moment in Helmstan’s palm, was cooling rapidly while her face was growing warmer and she was all of a sudden in a state of discomposure.
Helmstan could not hide his delight in seeing Alvar again. It was a source of happiness to her, but frustration to him that, as a local thegn, he was only required to attend witenagemots if they were held in the immediate area. As her husband and their visitor hugged, Helmstan joked that Alvar was now powerful enough to persuade the royal household to travel to Cheshire more often.
Alvar said, “Believe me, much as I treasure your friendship, I would welcome a break from riding up and down the land for a while.”
A groom came to hover in the doorway and shuffled his weight from one foot to the other. “Lord Helmstan, the grey mare is lame again.”
Helmstan turned and Káta knew by the slump of his shoulders that his loyalties were torn. “I have the lord Alvar in my hall,” he said to the groom.
But Alvar said, “Go. Believe me when I say that little in this world matters more than a healthy horse. These last few months have taught me that much, at least. I seem to have been in the saddle since Pentecost and here we are now at Lammas-time.”
Helmstan chuckled. “Then I will ask a boon; will you sit awhile with my wife and see to it that she rests?” He laid a hand on Káta’s shoulder and squeezed it, before turning on his heel and following the groom out of the hall.
The unbounded echoes of Helmstan’s huge voice took their time to fade away. Alvar pulled out his hand-saex and polished it with the hem of his tunic. Káta wiped imaginary dust from the table.
Alvar said, “I hope that you do not mind my coming here. I sought to prolong the feeling of stillness and warmth before going back to the bear’s den that is the court. It is as if I can breathe freely here.”
“Oh, but I thought you looked down on us, who are not so high-born…” Inexplicable relief had pushed her words out and now her hand went to her mouth, too late. She sprang up and stood in front of the wall-table. Keeping her back to him, she fingered the crockery that was stored there.
“Your husband said that you must not tire yourself.”
Her cheeks grew hot. She moved the plates and bowls inside each other, took them out and restacked them. “He is fretting over-much. I am with child; that is all.”
“Oh? Helmstan is right, you must sit down.”
She fanned her cheeks before she turned and sat down. “Helmstan is over-chary I know, but in truth we are both a little worried.” Her face cool again, she dared to look at the great lord, rich and influential, who had no interest in her little life. But she had begun, he was holding a polite expression of enquiry on his face, and the only way left to her was to blunder forward with her tale. She leaned forward and said, “I was with child once before, but the bairn died inside me. That is why we did not go to witness Edgar’s king-making.”
Such a fool, to speak to any man so, let alone this man. That she had spoken out of turn was obvious, for he lowered his voice and said, “I am sorry. But you are well now?”
She sat back. “Oh yes.” She closed her eyes and offered a rushed but oft-spoken prayer that this time the pain would be worth more than a dead baby, born a season too soon. A coil of shivers twisted round her spine and she opened her eyes.
Alvar did not move, but stared at her. “All will be well,” he said.
How wide was his world, where hers reached no further than Elfshill at the edge of their settlement. He would be a great earl and a father of many healthy children, easily begotten. She thought of him in his many-roomed houses, the jewelled swords hanging on the walls, and servants pouring the finest wine into smooth gold cups. The pottery would not be chipped or cracked, for his lady would… Her arms tensed, even though it was of no consequence to her what any future wife of his might or might not do. She sniffed in defiance of the tears that always came with memories of the miscarriage and she spoke stridently, compelled to declare her indifference to his charmed life.
“What it is to be a truly rich man and so assured of God’s favour. Folk here have only their own hands, to use for both praying and digging.” She waved her arm in a sweeping gesture that indicated the hall and the grounds beyond. “All will be well, you say. I cannot know, but I know that whatever comes to pass, I still have more to be thankful for than those who till the soil, their meagre hopes fulfilled merely if the sun rises and the harvest is good.”
Silence hung heavy in the air and magnified his presence. She put her hand up to her stupid mouth to stop any more insults from tumbling out. Eyes wide, she dared not blink, and only drew breath because her body insisted upon it.
His hand went from his chin and he scratched his ear. He leaned towards her with his forearms laid flat to support his weight. “You might be right, lady. And it is something which I, and indeed, the churchmen, must always bear in mind if we are to be worthy of the name ‘lord’.”
Surprised at his humble response, she lowered her hand, tilted her upper body forward and laid her arms on the table. “I am sorry; I should not have spoken thus.”
They remained in silence for a brief moment, their positions held in mirror image.
A shout went up from the far end of the hall. “Whitgar, you have spilled the lot.”
Another thegn responded wi
th a tease. “Do not worry; he is too mean to let it drip. Watch him lick it up.”
Gytha came from the noisy end of the hall, bearing a jug of ale.
Káta sat almost motionless, her breathing shallow in the silence while Gytha poured Alvar’s drink. His head was so close to Káta’s that she could feel the warmth of his breath and the chill it left behind when he inhaled.
Alvar waited until the cup was full and Gytha had stepped back. He tasted the brew and nodded his approval before the Norsewoman wandered down to the far end of the hall. He said, “This is the Welsh-ale?”
Káta looked at her feet and made a gap in the straw with her shoe. “We like it, but cannot always get it.” It was the best they had to offer; would he like it? She glanced up.
He lifted his chin and drank some more of the cloudy brew. His Adam’s apple moved up and down as he swallowed. Her gaze followed the movement of his throat, and her finger traced a line on the table while she wondered how the taut skin on his neck would feel to the touch.
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