Alvar the Kingmaker

by Annie Whitehead

  Alvar barged up to the great doors. ‘I owe them.’ Indeed. And here, proof of that portion of the debt having been settled, was the new earl of East Anglia, smoothing his feathers. Oh yes, Edgar always paid his dues. But he was too clever to leave himself vulnerable, and perhaps only Alvar really understood this. It might prove diverting to watch as the new lord of East Anglia learned at first hand the genius of Edgar’s gamesmanship. ‘We must all do with this what we can.’

  Waiting to go into the king’s hall, Brandon, the youngest brother of Elwood, was standing against the antechamber wall. He ran his hand over his blond hair and adjusted his tunic belt. The neck of his tunic was edged with gold embroidery and beneath it he wore a delicately embroidered white linen undershirt. His belt buckle was richly jewelled, with inlaid garnets and gold filigree. As he wriggled it into a comfortable position, his rings flashed their gemstones. All around him, the earls and leading thegns wore expensive, brightly coloured silk and they, too, were laden with gold and jewels. Yet in the crowded room, Brandon alone looked self-conscious and uncomfortable, his pale face even more wan than usual. Oswald was standing beside him, his head still but his eyes blinking quickly as he glanced round the room. He moved only to step back when necessary to allow the press of people to move on.

  Alvar stepped away from the doorway and moved with the tide of thirsty men.

  When Brandon hitched up his belt for the second time, Oswald said, “Do not worry, my lord, you look well-clothed. As you did when you swore your oath as an earl.”

  “Did I? Did I? I hoped to. It is a hard thing, to dress well enough but without outshining our king. I think I have it right.”

  Alvar, arriving next to them, stopped alongside Oswald and steadied himself against the flow.

  Oswald met his gaze, staring at him with his blue pin-hole eyes, but spoke to Brandon. “The king raised you up to be earl above your elder brother. He sees your worth.” Oswald smiled his worm-thin smile.

  “Horse dung.” Alvar was gratified to see Oswald’s sneering smile slip away.

  The bishop’s mouth shrank into a wrinkled pout. “You speak crudely. You are rude.”

  Alvar snorted a laugh. “Am I? I wonder why? Could it be that if a hound is poked often enough with a sharp stick, it will rise up and bite its tormentor?” He stepped forward. “And rude or not, I speak the truth. Brandon is earl because of his shared childhood with Edgar, and because you spoke on his behalf and promised to pray away Edgar’s sins. Look at the youngling; even he does not believe he can do this unaided.”

  The tip of Oswald’s nose twitched, and even in the confined space he managed to draw up to his full height to look Alvar in the eye. “But he will do it well. And he will do what he has to without having ale in one hand and a whore in the other. I throw your words back at you and say that only friendship binds you to Edgar. Why else would he keep such an uncouth man by his side?”

  “My lords, it is not becoming…”

  They looked at Brandon.

  “I thought you had forgotten I was here,” he said.

  “You are right,” Oswald said. “We must not make a show of ourselves. It is time to be in the hall. Lord Alvar, I cannot move forward; you are in my way.”

  Alvar leaned nearer the bishop and met his gaze, unblinking. “Never did I hear a truer word. But have a care, for one more step and you will be on my toes. And then…”

  The corridor cleared and a line of monks made their way past, cowls on and heads bowed. They were followed by the archbishop of Canterbury. Dunstan smiled as he approached the lords and they followed him into the hall.

  Up on the dais, Edgar’s lady companion was seated in the queen-seat, holding her newborn son. Alvar shook his head. “And I, branded whore-monger, am the only one who sees anything wrong in this.”

  Oswald turned to face Alvar. His thin skin stretched over his cheeks like that over a ripe plum. “This land has been rocked too many times by the deaths of young, childless kings. Edgar has a good woman and a healthy child. Lord Brandon has a high-born wife and more than one son.” His lean lips curled upwards. “Where is your lady? Where are your children? You have only whores, but you dare to tell others that they live shameful lives? A hound with fleas will not tell a great man how to wash, my lord.” Vitriol expelled, Oswald’s face faded to its usual grey. He said, “A new son born to the house of Wessex is a good thing and we must thank God for it.”

  Alvar glared at him. “So, if I understand you: bishops, like poor old Winchester, may not wed. Monks, unless they are your kin, may not hold land. And you, the bishop of Worcester, now hold a ship-soke in return for absolving Edgar of the small matter of his not being wed to the mother of his child. I bow to your learned wisdom.”

  A crackle gurgled in Oswald’s throat.

  Brandon said, “Again, the two of you speak athwart me as if I am not here.”

  Oswald pointedly turned his back on Alvar before he answered Brandon. “You are right. We should be speaking instead about how, through the use of land, we can make East Anglia stronger. We will show the godless lords how mighty the Church can become, and where better to do it than Mercia?”

  Alvar clenched his fists and breathed in until his nostrils stretched. In the lowest, growling tone his voice could project, he said, “You can try. Mercia has never yet bent to the rule of a Dane, be he Viking or churchman.”

  He sought out his brother. Brock was sitting near the hearth with the abbot Athelwold and a young woman who remained in the shadows. Alvar approached them, still muttering under his breath, vowing to minimise the East Anglian religious influence on Edgar, denouncing their ingratiating attempts to indulge his every whim, and bemoaning the foul smell of hypocrisy.

  Brock looked up. “Are you behaving yourself?”

  “I should have felled him where he stood. Rotting crow-body…” Alvar sat down and shoved his legs out straight in front of him. “I reminded him that he is not one of us, but I only spoke the truth.”

  The abbot chuckled. “I think he owns enough land in East Anglia to call himself an Englishman. And, some might say, enough kin in the Church to call himself archbishop whenever he thinks the time is right. But you would not hear that from me.”

  Athelwold sat forward and the young woman looked up. A few strands of her Celt-dark hair hung free from her headdress and the deep beauty of her sloe-eyes erased all thoughts of churchmen and holy pastimes.

  The abbot spoke on. “But… Oswald’s sorrow… Sad shape of our monasteries… Heartfelt…”

  Alvar’s pretence at listening enabled him to pick out a few words, but he was not looking at the abbot. “I believe we have not met, my lady.”

  The young woman bestowed a smile on Alvar that was warm enough to melt glass.

  Brock knocked him from his catatonic state. “This is Lady Alfreda, widow of Elwood of Ramsey. The lady widow is under the abbot’s care.”

  Now Alvar had another reason for disliking the late lord of East Anglia; why had this exquisite creature been hidden so long from view? He continued to stare, feeling the rising heat from the fire and aware, but unashamed, that he was behaving like an unsophisticated stable-boy. The lady held his gaze for longer than was seemly and then slowly looked down, her long lashes dropping delicate shadows on her cheeks.

  Brock’s wife Swytha came to join them, and Alvar heard snatches of her whispered words of assurance to Brock that their young foster-son, Goodwin, was settled and happy with Swytha’s serving-woman.

  Swytha said to Alfreda, “The shapes on your kirtle are pretty.”

  Alfreda smoothed her patterned skirt. When she spoke, Alvar thought of honey, dripping from a spoon. “I have my cloth sent from York. It is the best. Where is yours from?”

  Swytha shrugged. “We weave our own cloth, my lady.” She looked at Alvar as if requiring help, but Alvar was cognisant enough of his own shortcomings to know that his was not the best advice to seek on how to speak to high-born ladies without causing offence.

&nb
sp; Swytha tried again. “The child Edward has wind griping in his belly. I told Lady Wulfreda that she should put him high on her shoulder to bring it forth, but she will not heed me and sticks to rubbing his belly with her hand. Which do you think is best?”

  Alfreda looked round the little group and smiled. “My firstborn was trouble-free. He was never full of wind and slept long hours. Oh, but with my next…”

  Alvar was content to listen to the mellow voice whatever the topic of conversation, but even as an uncouth man, he detected the change in the tenor of that voice when she began to speak of her children. Swytha was smiling, evidently relieved to have hit upon a subject which drew the widow to speak out, and the two women continued to exchange stories of child-rearing.

  One of the king’s thegns came to stand next to their bench. “Alvar, Brock, Abbot, it is good to see you. Lady Alfreda, the king asks that he might renew your friendship.” He held out his hand and she stood up.

  The thegn led her to the dais and Alvar watched them go.

  Brock nudged Alvar. “Your mouth is hanging open, Brother.”

  Alvar turned to his brother and grinned. “Well, it is not often I lay eyes on one who is so…” He glanced up at the group on the dais. “Ah, but look up there. What heartbreak does that foretell; Edgar’s eyes open with lust, and Wulfreda’s narrowed with sourness?” He shook his head. Perhaps Elwood had been right to keep his wife away from Edgar.

  Abbot Athelwold said, “It is a shame that young Edgar has not learned to quench his fires with worship, or if not that, then a grope of a seamstress or some such. Lady Alfreda has had a hard life thus far, and she might not have the necessary strength to become one of the king’s playthings.”

  Alvar raised an eyebrow. “How is that so?”

  His brother said, “You spoke once of how Elwood never brought her to the king’s house. Yes, Edgar lusted after her, but the truth is more that Elwood did not want the world to see his fist marks on her cheeks and eyes.”

  “Truly? How could any man…”

  “I am sad to say that it is true,” the abbot said. “Even as a child, Elwood had a temper, but his fear of his father meant that he kept it fettered. After the Half-king went to Glastonbury it was not the same tale, but one of strong drink not held well.”

  Alvar said, “So that is why he would not drink in the mead-hall. He feared that he would lose his grip on his wrath in front of witnesses?”

  Athelwold nodded. “She has two little boys but I hardly need say that her sons were not begotten through love.” He looked again at the dais. “It is no small thing to be loved by a king. Stronger women than she have been broken by it.” He sighed. Wulfreda was continuing to serve Edgar his drinks but her smile was painted and her eyes were dull as she followed the king’s gaze to the end of the table, where the young widow sat with her chin up, eyes focused on some distant point at the far end of the hall.

  Swytha said, “She has her nose in the air. I hope that it is only to mask her shyness and hide her suffering, and not because she believes herself better than the rest of us.”

  The piper dropped his flute and it rolled along the floor, coming to rest by their feet. He scrabbled after it and said, “I am sorry, my lords, it is not the beckoning to the board that you are wont to hear, but I hope it will do.” He snatched up his instrument and returned to the other musicians in the corner behind the king’s table. The song of the harp, whistle, and pipe rose with the smoke to the high ceiling and the glee-men turned somersaults and took up their positions in front of the dais.

  Alvar said, “They make me giddy. And I have lost my will to eat. I will come back later, to help you wipe pig grease from your fat chin.”

  He ducked a playful punch and wandered to the far end of the hall, where the grey-bearded lord of Chester was nursing a cup of ale and looked content to sleep in his seat.

  Chester opened one eye as Alvar approached. “Well youngling, I thought you were keeping away from your fellow northerners tonight?”

  Alvar laughed and clutched a make-believe chest wound. “Stinging words, from one so dear to me. But you forget that I hold lands in the south, too.”

  The Greybeard grinned. “I, forget? How can I, when you tell me every time I see you?” He sat up and shuffled along the bench. “Sit. I would hear your thoughts on the new earl.”

  Alvar grunted. “He is a mouse where his brother was a fox, and he has lived his life in the shadow of the barn while his brother was in the hen-house. You know it and the others in the witan know it. But he has land and he has Oswald…” He held his hands out, as if the point were well enough made. “Now, I wish to speak instead of a man who roars like a boar and is never frightened to say what he thinks. Where is your thegn, my old friend Helmstan?”

  “I told him not to ride all this way, but to bide at home. He is now a father, for his wife bore a child not long back. He told me a dreadful tale of how she fell into a swoon from which she would not wake and the child was weakened, for her womb had… My lord, where are you going?”

  The girl had a name, but he had not asked to hear it. She had stilled her tongue, crying out but twice, the second time when he dropped the silver pennies in her lap afterwards. He dozed on the hay, with no desire other than to listen to the snorts of the horses, but she stroked his chest and moved her hands lower.

  “I can feel that the night is not yet fully over, my lord. Shall I slide under you again, if you have nowhere else that you need to be?”

  He reached to move her hand away. “Where is it that you think I should be? Wooing a high-born lady to earn her love? Begetting some high-born sons to leave my lands to?”

  “I am sorry, my lord. I did not mean to make you wroth.” She sat up and straightened her clothes.

  “No, bide where you are, for then I can bring you no nearer to the ground.” He pulled her back down and rolled towards her. “God curse that wizened old Dane, for he is right. This is where I belong.”

  Chapter Seven AD963

  South Yorkshire

  With little wind to carry the rain clouds forward, it was easy enough to outrun them, and in moments the group was riding on firmer ground, and the men had the warmth of the early summer sunshine once more on their backs. On either side of the lane the hawthorn blossom showed the way, flanking the road with pillows of delicate white. Even though there was always a warm welcome waiting for him in Yorkshire, Alvar was glad to be travelling south where, usually, the weather was better and the air less damp. On this occasion, his leaving had been made easier, because he had not ridden away alone.

  He turned and smiled at his friend Beorn riding alongside him, ahead of their small company made up of men from both Mercia and Northumbria. “We should reach Dinnington soon. I rested here last year on my way south; Thegn Brihtric is a good man and a better host. We will be made to feel welcome.”

  Beorn nodded, but his smile faded. He rubbed his smooth head. “It is not the welcome of the thegns hereabouts that worries me.” His voice, deep and doleful at the best of times, rang unusually morose as he spoke the last two words.

  Alvar leaned over as if to land a playful punch on his friend’s arm. “Not this again. I have told you; Edgar is keen to meet you and to show you how grateful he is for the loyalty that you and yours have shown since he became king.” He could see from Beorn’s expression that he remained unconvinced. “You will believe me when you read the new law which is even now being drafted.” Alvar was no scholar, nor an expert in legal matters, having come but lately to the world of politics. But even he couldn’t fail to notice the difference between the old laws of the famous King Athelstan, who spent his whole reign fighting and whose charters were full of threats and curses, and Edgar’s, which were written in the same tone as his speech, assured, confident. There was no pleading or coercing, merely the recognition of existing ways and customs, and a granting of rights and privileges commensurate with the support and loyalty which had already been forthcoming. “So it is that we are riding
through the Danelaw. He will not alter the name, or the laws by which the folk here abide.”

  They slowed their pace to pass through a cluster of homesteads huddling beside a small chapel. It was an old building with timbers faded and weathered, and the roof was in need of new thatch. The parish priest was sitting on the grass outside the church doorway, with a small child perched on his lap. Reaching round the child’s tiny form, he was whittling a wooden flute. Occasionally the child would reach out and touch the instrument and the priest took care to lift his knife well away from the tiny chubby fingers. Alvar said, “There is yet another thing that should be left well alone.”

  Beorn raised an eyebrow in enquiry.

  “The Church might well be a rotting body, but it is the head and not the feet which needs lopping off.” He chewed the inside of his lip. The dispossession of canons continued, the jurisdiction of the earls was gradually being eroded, and now a tithe tax had been introduced. Devotion to God and the rule of St Benedict was no doubt laudable, but the reforms seemed to overlook one fundamental role of the Church. Away from the cathedrals and monasteries, tending the flock was the most important function of the clergy, and the parish priests were doing a fine job. “Why sharpen a blade that is already keen?”

  “Ah, you mean Oswald and the reformers. There is no such nonsense going on in the north, thank God. Tell me again why it is a good idea for me to come south?”

  Alvar chuckled. “There are other newcomers apart from Oswald who are more pleasing to the eye.”

  “Oh yes? Is this why my sister looked elsewhere for a husband?”

  “Hah! She would never have wed me, knowing as she does that she is far too good a woman for me.” Even so, he was not about to insult Beorn by telling him any more about the beautiful widow from East Anglia, who had the delicious habit of tilting her head down before she looked up at a man through the darkest eyes, and stopped just short of giving him a full smile, so that the tiniest suggestion of amusement or even pleasure hovered as a hint around her carmine lips.