Alvar the Kingmaker

by Annie Whitehead

Alvar reached out and patted the boy’s head. “He looks like you; his hair is so fair.”

  “Do you think so? I see only his father’s brown eyes. And he is like Helmstan, for once he knows what he craves he will have it then and there, or fight until he gets it.”

  “Much like all men, then, would you say?”

  She smoothed Siferth’s hair away from his eyes with the back of her hand, and stroked his face with her little finger. “No, it is more than that. I can see it in his eyes; he will forever be losing his heart to someone or something, because once he looks with longing he can see naught else.”

  “Uncle Var-Var, swim?”

  Alvar ruffled the boy’s hair. “Not today. I have something I must do with your father; I took but a heartbeat to speak with your mother first. Besides, she likes it not when I take off my clothes to swim.”

  “Oh, that was such a long time ago.”

  He stood up and crossed his arms, grabbing the hem of his tunic as if he were about to pull it off over his head.

  She laughed and wagged a finger again. “Do not dare.”

  Siferth pushed his lip forward to form a baby-frown. He said, “Get Gytha swim,” and scrambled back up into the field.

  Káta stood up and watched him go. “You see, he will not sit while you make up your mind, and he will not rest until someone swims with him.” She sat back down and gave Alvar another gently delivered admonishment, pointing at his dishevelled clothing. “You are wayward.”

  Alvar fastened his belt over his repositioned tunic. He grinned. “I am sorry, my lady. You said it was long ago, and so I took you to mean that you no longer minded my nakedness.”

  She bit her lip. If he did but know how beautiful she had thought his body when first she had laid eyes on him. “You should be ashamed. You are a bad teacher for my son.”

  He nodded, but grinned, making him seem less ashamed than a drunk staggering from one whorehouse to another. “My sister Swytha tells me so, too. As does the queen, and her bairn is still in his cradle.”

  She sat back. It was a relief to be able to change the topic of conversation, even if there was a nagging discomfort attached to the subject. “Tell me about Lady Alfreda. Is she truly lovely?”

  He laughed.

  “Tell me, is she comely?”

  He folded his arms.

  Káta said, “Is she fair as the lily? Slight like the Welsh poppy?” She got up, and gathered flowers from the grassy slope and the hedgerow beyond. She sat back down and dropped them into his lap. “Is she tall as the cowslip? Small like the clover? Prickly as the thistle? Tell me. Or have we found, at last, someone who is too grand even for a great lord like you?”

  He held his hands up. “No more. I will tell you. She is…” He looked up. “Her hair is dark and she is tall, taller than the king, anyway.”

  “Taller than Gytha?”

  “Yes, but not so…” He put his arms out to the sides, to indicate the Norsewoman’s rounded figure.

  “Oh, that is not kind.”

  “Well do not laugh, then.”

  “Tell me more about the queen.”

  He stared out across the river. “It is hard to find the words. Men speak to each other in ways that are not seemly.”

  “Simply tell me what you see, then.”

  He started again. “Her hair is dark; I know this because she always leaves a twist of it free from her head-cloth, as if she has put her clothes on swiftly, having come late from her bed. She is sloe-eyed, and those eyes are so big that she has the look of a helpless child. She gives freely of her smile and yet, when she bestows that smile, it feels as if no other man has ever seen it. And when she walks before you on those long legs, her arse swings like…”

  “Enough.” Káta laughed and covered her ears. “I have heard enough.”

  “I am sorry. I warned you I would be uncouth…”

  “No, it was not that. I meant that I have heard enough to know.” She hesitated, unsure whether it was her place to speak of such things. But he was waiting for her explanation. She sighed. “It must be hard to love a woman who is wed to another. Harder still, when she is not from the same rank.”

  She folded her hands in her lap and tried to calm her breathing. When she dared to look up he was staring at her, a bemused expression on his face, as if she had told him something of which he was not aware.

  However many times she had been in this situation, she never seemed to learn, and instead of keeping silent to limit the damage already done, as usual she felt her mouth opening to let more stupid words come tumbling out. “All I meant was, my lord, that I think I understand a little of what you feel.” Too late, the words were there, hanging in the air, waiting to be interpreted. Or misinterpreted. Dear God, what had she said? Her cheeks grew warm and she looked away.

  He sat up and took her hand in his. Her only live sense then was that of touch; the warmth of his hand and the rough patches on his palm, the strength in his fingers.

  “Lady, I would never…”

  He said something and she did not hear properly, for her own thoughts were too loud. But she was certain that he spoke of loyalty, of wanting what cannot be had, of accepting what was not to be.

  She could not lift her head, but stared at his hand, for if she looked at it, he could not move it away.

  Then he spoke of what it was to be married, and she knew his hurt, for Alfreda was now the king’s wife and forever lost to him. Wasn’t that what he meant? She looked up. “I am sorry, my lord. I had no right…” Káta blinked back tears and said, “I am blessed. My husband is a good man.” She pulled a little with her arm and waited for him to stand.

  He did not release her hand. “Yes, he is a good man.”

  At last, he let go, and still she could feel where his fingers had pressed against hers.

  He stood up. “And now I know why you look away from me, and you will understand why I ride away from you.”

  Helmstan knelt before Alvar, clutching a gold cross between his joined hands, which he presented for his lord to hold while the oath was sworn. “By the Lord, before whom this hallowed thing is holy, I will be steadfast and true to Alvar and love all that he loves and shun all that he shuns, after God’s law and the world’s law and never, by will or by thought, by word or by deed, do aught of what is loathsome to him, as long as he upholds me as I am willing to earn and fulfil all that our understanding was, when I bowed to him and took his will.”

  Alvar accepted the oath, raised his thegn up to kiss him, and reflected that the duty to keep his man as he deserved probably did not include harbouring the occasional daydream in which he swapped his life for his. He waited for Helmstan to get properly to his feet again and he looked around the hall, used until now by the Greybeard of Chester, held in the name of kings who never came. There was a large gold cross on the wall; he looked up to the ceiling, projected his thoughts beyond it and silently apologised for his lust and envy. And, while he was about it, for most of the other five deadly sins as well.

  Alvar handed Helmstan the items of heriot, glad that they had chosen the war gear together. He stroked the new, dent-free helmet and he tested the hinge on the cheek-plate. He leaned forward to pick up the shield. It was the usual round, with an iron boss and leather strap, but the lime-wood was covered with leather, painted to Helmstan’s own design, with curling motifs and dragon heads. Alvar gave Helmstan the sword, pattern-welded from twisted iron rods, which would mark him out as a rich and powerful thegn.

  Many men had come this day; men who, like Helmstan, had sworn oaths to the late Greybeard and needed a new lord. He scanned the benches to see if any man remained who had not yet come forward to be placed under his protection. Káta sat among them, with Siferth on her lap. Her gaze flicked from her husband to his new lord. She looked down at the boy and adjusted her veil, but the action was idle habit, not nervous fiddling. Siferth wriggled off her knee and as she ran across the room after him, she looked over at the dais once more, her face bright and her
cheeks uncoloured. These days she walked tall and let her sleeves fall back; she was like her flowers near the river, showing their petals to the sun.

  He, too, felt as if he had been standing taller, divested of a dull ache, which had eased the moment he was able legitimately to return to Cheshire, and then been completely dissolved by his overwhelming relief to find that she was alive.

  He found her changed, more confident because she had a child, and markedly different from the woman whom he had so recently left in Winchester, a woman whose confidence grew the more men lusted after her. Alfreda had realised her ambition, but Alvar sensed that an ache lay gnawing at her heart, even now. Káta, however, had fulfilled her role and felt worthy. If marriage put a woman beyond the reach of other men, then childbirth moved her still further. Káta was a contented mother, and he was no longer a tongue-tripped fool in her presence. He dared the occasional joke about his status and, whereas once she would have reacted with distaste, now she seemed to understand that he was poking fun at himself. Gone was the shy mouse, and she was bold enough to tease him as if she were no longer cowed by his status. Yes, motherhood had completed her, and there would be no more misunderstandings.

  When he reviewed their conversation that morning, it was a condensed version. Two comments, which he knew had originally been separated by time and context, now sat together in his memory and would not shift.

  ‘It must be hard to love a woman who is wed to another. Harder still, when they are not from the same rank.’

  ‘It is I who envies you and Helmstan, but you know this.’

  Káta walked back to her seat, the recalcitrant Siferth waving his arms and legs about, deploying the only defence available to a small child being lifted from the ground. She looked at the group on the dais once more and when she smiled, her blue eyes flashed like a glint of sunlight upon the water. When her smile was directed at him, Alvar felt the hot light as if a candle shone upon his face, but found that when she turned away, she took the flame with her and he was thrust back into the cool of the shadow. Down by the river, though, her smiles had been for him…

  “My lord?”

  “Hmm?”

  Helmstan grinned. “I must thank you again for this heriot. I am proud to hold this smooth new helm, and this linden shield with not a dimple on it.” He paused. “My lord, nay, friend, is something worrying you? Your thoughts seem to be in a place far from this hall.”

  Helmstan was wrong. Alvar’s thoughts were very much in the hall, although they might as well be flying around outside, for they were un-catchable, nonsensical. But, whatever rope of sense these twisted threads of ideas eventually made, one thing was certain; there was naught to be done. Whatever his destination, all paths were blocked with tree-falls. “Naught is wrong, my friend. All is as it should be.”

  Helmstan waved at Káta as they moved across the crowded hall. He said, “My lord, after all these years of friendship, it means a great deal to me to swear as your thegn. I loved the Greybeard well, but you know, I hope, that you will always find me at your side, ready to do your bidding. Ask me aught or ask me naught, I will…”

  Alvar fiddled with his arm ring. “I thank you for your words, but there is no need.”

  “But I want to have it said. I know that you will look after these folk well, and that you and I will stand by each other through thick and through thin…”

  “Enough, man.” Alvar ran a finger around his neckline to loosen his tunic. Either he was getting fat like his brother, or the room was too airless. He stared around the room and his gaze alighted on a small figure, hunched in a chair near the door. “Ah, there is the Greybeard’s widow; I should speak with her on this day.”

  He walked away with only as much haste as was seemly, pausing on the way to receive words of congratulations from thegns already bound to him, and those who had knelt before him that day.

  Brihtmær, a thegn of Chester, slapped him on the back and said, “Well, my lord, Mercia is yours. What else can you yet wish for?”

  Alvar managed a grin. “I crave only to walk through this green field of life without stepping in any cow shit, though I fear it is not a wish that God will grant me. Come, let us find a drink.”

  Chapter Ten AD966

  Cheshire

  In the brew-house, Káta was checking the progress of the latest batch of ale. “With Helmstan away, we will need no wine from Chester and can make do with our own ale for a few weeks,” she said.

  Young Haward ran in, flushed and panting. “Lady, my mother sent me to ask for some newly churned butter. My sister’s fever has cooled and she would like a little to eat.”

  “Run and find Siflæd in the churning room. Take what you need of the newest butter, and tell your mother to give your sister some barley bread, too. It will help to rebuild her strength.”

  From the brew-house Káta made her way down to the river and called on Wyne the miller to enquire about grain stores.

  “Some of the older bags were worm-riddled, my lady, but we have enough to see us to next harvest. I must warn you though that it might not grind too well.”

  “Lord Helmstan is away so we do not need it ground so finely. Sift and sieve, and we will make the best of what we have. But tell me if you find any more weevils. Once the crop barns are empty we must see to it that they are clean for when the sheaves come in.”

  Beyond the mill, Burgred the herdsman’s youngest daughters were standing in the river while they washed their clothes, and Káta dropped down beside them on the bank to help.

  The elder of the two, Wulfflæd, said, “We have been laughing about old mother Leofwaru. She has lost her wits altogether now, my lady.”

  Edith, the youngest, said, “She upped and kissed the priest, full on the mouth; said he was her long-dead husband.” She giggled again as she splashed the kirtle back into the water.

  Káta wrung out an undershirt and left it on the stones by the water’s edge. “I wish I could stay longer, for it is good to be outside with friends, but…” She hauled herself up the bank and walked with heavy feet through the fields to the hall.

  “Gytha? Gytha? Where is she… Oh there you are. We will go to Oakhurst tomorrow. Hild’s bairn is due soon and it is a while since I have called on old Goda.”

  “He cannot see you; why worry?”

  “That is not kind,” Káta said. “When I have spoken to Leofsige about our food, I will do my sewing, and then we must set to on that loom.” As she walked out of the room she said without turning, “And do not wrinkle your brow; you know it has to be done.”

  In the morning, they took the path through the woods to Oakhurst. At the edge of the village they stood aside for the slaughter-man, who was moving on from the hillside settlement, having butchered their animals for them and been paid with a few cuts of meat which he could then sell on. They held their noses and made faces until his wagon of carcasses was out of smelling range.

  In Oakhurst the villagers waved and shouted their greetings. Among the cluster of small dwelling houses, women were grinding corn in the sunshine that penetrated the clearing while their children played beside them, skilled in the art of avoiding the quern stones. Old blind Goda, propped up against a wooden sheep pen, was talking to the youngsters and directing them in their game as if he could see what they were doing. An older woman, her sleeves pushed up, prodded a tub full of woollen cloth with a wooden pole and stirred to ensure that the red dye from the madder root took hold. “It is hard going this time, my lady.”

  Gytha stepped forward and peered at the mixture. “When I lived in Northampton, we used stems of ladies’ bed-straw to turn the cloth red. It takes well, and if you use it there is no need for the first salt-boil.”

  Káta said, “Or we can buy some more madder root from Chester. The best comes from over the sea and seems to work better. Let me know if you want me to get you some.”

  Hild came from behind one of the buildings. She walked with the side-to-side gait that came with the last stage of pregnan
cy and leaned heavily on the ever-present blackthorn stick. “As you can see my lady, this bairn is in no mood to be born yet awhile,” she said.

  Káta said, “You must be weary. I know you were hoping to have it weaned before harvest.”

  Hild shrugged. “It would not be the first time that I have brought a bairn to the fields with me.” She lowered her voice. “It should be here by week’s end, and yet it does not kick as much of late.”

  Káta exchanged glances with Gytha. “What you need is red-berry leaves, boiled up in water,” she said. “I have some dried among my healing leaves; I will bring them next time and help you make the drink, then I will stay with you all day to help you.”

  “All day?”

  One of the other women looked up and sat back from the quern stone. “I think our lady is like us, and needs to keep busier than ever when her man is away.”

  The midwives and the other women stared at Káta, dread blanching their faces. “My lady, what have you done?”

  Káta looked at each of them in turn. “We have all prayed to Christ, and left gifts for the goddess Freyja too. It is nearly three weeks over the time and the bairn is not moving as it should. We all know this is not good. This was all I could think of to do.”

  She had not told them where she was going, but when she came back from the heart of the forest with the hagtesse they had hissed at her and crossed themselves.

  “I know that she stinks. I know that she looks like she lives in a hedge. I know, too, that every one of you thinks that she is a witch. But how can any of us know what it means to live on your own, with no kin or neighbours nearby? Who among us would wish to live beyond the warmth of the hall-hearth? We need someone who is skilled at helping with childbearing and…” She looked at their anxious faces. Adherence in the villages to the folk-ways was not as fixed as the fear of pure evil. They had every right to defy her; they could report her to the priest, or to the reeve.

  The women looked at each other, and when a low moan inside the house rose to a wrenching scream, they looked back to Káta. Mawa, the eldest, stepped forward and took Káta’s hand. “You speak the truth, Lady. The folk-ways are older than any of us here standing and we need this woman’s help. We only wish that we were as fearless as you are. We cannot know what the priest will do…”