Alvar the Kingmaker

by Annie Whitehead

  “Naught; forget what I said.” Káta climbed into her bed. She brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “When I was little I would let my mother think I was sleeping. When she had left the room, I would open the hangings, and think of a comely king, or fair-looking lord, who would come in and sweep me away. It was but a game, but it was such a lovely way to go to sleep. Did you ever…”

  “Me? I keep too busy to find time for love.” Gytha reached up to draw the bed-curtains.

  “No, leave them…”

  She woke, but did not open her eyes. She could not tell if she had dreamed; there was no distinct vision to recall, only a lingering contentment that she was in no hurry to chase away. She lay under the blankets and stretched out her arms.

  “Be still, you dim-witted hound. Burgred, fetch him back; he is on the net.”

  Káta heaved herself from the bed, opened the shutter, and peered out into the sunshine. The dogs were padding over the hunting-nets as the men tried to fold them away.

  “Kat! Dearling!” Helmstan waved. “We have boar for the spit tonight and none of us wounded in the hunting of it.” He stepped over the dogs who meandered round his feet while their tails thrummed. “Here comes the man who saw a hart and let it get away. You should get yourself a bow made of yew, my friend.” Helmstan’s laugh boomed out across the yard.

  The young thegn, Lyfing, said, “My lord, my bow is as long as a man, and is harder than most. Yet the ash yields in my hands like a soft woman.”

  Helmstan looked up at his wife and smiled. “He speaks as if he knows what a woman feels like. With tales like that, we should have him as our scop. I will be with you shortly, my love, but we have a wounded hound and a lame horse to see to.”

  Káta laughed. His face was flushed and grubby and he was in need of a shave, but he did not look ready to sit down, like the boys who raced in the fields every summer and needed a few moments to slow to a stop. “I will not call you from your games yet awhile,” she said.

  She grabbed her clothes and threw them on over her shift. Gathering her hair forward over her shoulder, she braided it on her way outside as she rushed to try to make up lost time with her chores.

  Alvar was outside the bake-house, supervising the loading of provisions onto the pack horses. She opened her mouth to speak, but left the words unsaid as Helmstan hurried back up the path from the stables and caught her up in an embrace that lifted her off the ground.

  He bent his head and whispered in her ear. “This is not much of a homecoming my love, I know. But keep our bed warm for me when I come back again.”

  He set her back down, and her cheeks throbbed at the thought of Alvar as witness. But his back was turned as he took more dried meat from Leofsige and he had not noticed.

  “I must say, Helmstan, that if the thegns of Chester give as many men and as much food, we will soon be strong enough to meet aught that we might find in Wales.” He bestowed a charming smile on Káta but the skin around his eyes did not crinkle. “I thank you for your warm welcome, Lady.”

  “What? Oh, it was naught, my lord. We are always glad to see you here.”

  His smile remained in place, but he looked past her.

  The men mounted their horses and Káta begged one indulgence, turning to gather what she needed from the pile by the door. “It will stop the evil one pulling at the bridle and will stop your horses falling,” she said. She presented each of the riders at the front of the column with a switch made from ash. She reached up to give Alvar his stick, but though he took it, he did not meet her gaze. The sun hurt her eyes. She took a step back to allow them to depart, and blinked to lose the black circle that blurred in front of her eyelids.

  Gytha appeared at her side. “What is wrong, Lady?”

  “Naught is wrong. Here you see a lady waving off her man and his lord, and hoping that her man gets time to rest at Chester before he moves on. All is as it should be. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a dull-wit.” She brought her sleeve up to her eye, wiped it, and went to attend to her duties.

  After seeing to the upturned bucket in the milking shed, and helping Gytha on the loom, she spent the day checking the stores and provisions, making sure that they had enough for their needs while the men were away. After that, with fewer folk around, there was nothing to prevent her catching up with her mending tasks, and the need for neat stitches kept her thoughts busy as well as her hands. But as night fell she put down her sewing, unable to do more without the light, and let her gaze wander to the window. Had the sun also shone all day over Wales?

  When Siferth asked that night to share her bed instead of Gytha’s, she agreed; he cuddling up for warmth, she for comfort.

  North Wales

  Helmstan put his hands to his ears. “Stop! Enough names! I brought you one weapon-man from every five hides of my land, I am here in this rainy spot, and that should be enough for you. I do not care why I fight; I only wonder when I can go home and get dry.”

  Alvar halted his list of the warring Welsh princes. He nodded at Helmstan’s man, Lyfing, as he made his way towards the latrine ditch. When Lyfing had walked past, he answered Helmstan. “You are right. All you need to know is that there are many sons of the Welsh leader, Idwal, who are now set against one another, and Edgar has sent us here to be the fox in the hen-house.” He had taken the commission without question or hesitation, but it was not the way he preferred to fight. To him it seemed a misuse of men and resources, as well as being morally questionable, to lay waste to the land whilst the inhabitants were engaged elsewhere. But he had his orders. “Think of us as Edgar’s big foot, stamping down heavily on small ants who might think to bite us.”

  “Have we not stamped enough? It has been weeks.” Helmstan stretched out his big hands and warmed them, holding his palms towards the flames, and rubbing them together from time to time. “I understand that we are here to make mischief, but where can it end? We are fighting neither for one side nor the other. Must we keep on until one lot of Welsh wins out over another; what if that takes more than the sixty days?”

  It was a reasonable question. Alvar only wished he had the answer. His instructions were to show the sons of Idwal that whenever they rose up to take arms, the English would be there, breathing threateningly down their necks. But how to end it? They had wreaked destruction up and down the peninsular called the Lleyn, and wherever they had met any Welshmen with a mind to fight, they had persuaded them otherwise. Perhaps Helmstan was right and it was time to go home. The men would, by law, only serve sixty days and if nothing was resolved by then they would have to leave anyway. He looked around him. Knowing the Welsh liking for an ambush, they had set up camp at a site which left them less vulnerable to attack, but more open to the weather. The day’s rain had subsided enough for them to light the fires, but the ground beneath them was soggy, a sodden mix of slippery leaves, sopping grass and twigs that would never snap, only bend. If the weather was as bad on the other side of the march, then the harvest might be under threat. With that thought, Alvar leaned forward and slapped his hand down on Helmstan’s thigh. “You are right. It is time to go home.”

  Helmstan looked up. “The clouds are gathering. How far will we get before nightfall?”

  Alvar stood up, trying to remember how far they were from the settlement of Nefyn, and how long it would take them to get back over the border. They’d not ridden a direct route from Nefyn, but had taken a detour to rout a band of Welshmen who had challenged them on the road. “How many miles was it to the…” He turned at the sound of shouting.

  Lyfing was running back from the latrine ditch, pursued by half a dozen Welshmen. Alvar, Helmstan and the rest of the men leaped to gather their weapons, and Helmstan scooped up a spear. He ran to give the spear to Lyfing who, as soon as he had a weapon in his hand, turned and faced the enemy. With a spear but no shield, he stood his ground, jabbing at the intruders, keeping them at bay until Helmstan found his footing and began slashing with his sword, and did his be
st to protect them both with his shield. It was only a matter of moments then until Alvar and the others were able to join them, and a hastily established shield wall gave strength and protection. To Alvar and, no doubt, all of the men there, the clattering of the shields coming together was the most comforting sound they could hear on the battlefield. They fought as one, until they gained ground and the wall altered to form smaller, tighter formations. Lyfing was engaged in a scuffle with a Welshman; he was forced to keep back, poking with his spear but unable to come forward because he had no shield. Helmstan rushed round Lyfing, reaching with his sword, and stabbed the adversary in the shoulder. The Welshman went down, but even whilst on his knees, he thrust forward with his spear. Lyfing jumped out of the way and the man’s swing brought his body round. For a moment he was facing the other way. Helmstan stepped forward, went down on one knee, and brought his sword across the man’s throat, standing up and booting the body forward away from him. Immediately he stepped back, retreating behind the wall, dragging the brave but increasingly vulnerable Lyfing with him. As the wall closed around them, the man next to Alvar slipped on the rain-soaked grass. He fell, and a tall Welshman came forward through the gap. Helmstan slashed at him with his sword until Alvar could adjust his footing. Helmstan’s sword thrust had severed the man’s arm muscle and his arm hung useless. Alvar finished him off with a blow to the skull, and the Welshman fell back. Alvar and Helmstan continued to hack and push, standing close and working in unison.

  A cry went up from somewhere behind them. “My lords, the bowmen; look out!”

  Káta stepped out of the widower Brunstan’s dwelling. She sniffed, and smelled the subtle change in the air that signalled the beginning of the end of the summer. The harvest was due in, and there was enough of a cool breeze in the evenings to warrant the wearing of a light cloak. She turned at the sound of footsteps as young Haward clattered over the footbridge.

  “My lady, thank God I have found you,” he said. He leaned over and looked down at the ground while he caught his breath.

  “What is it? Is your sister unwell again?”

  “No, beyond the ridge… The men are coming home”

  Káta felt her shoulders lift. “Oh thank God. I will run back and tell Leofsige.”

  He touched her arm. “No, my lady. There are wounded among the men; it is not food they need, but your leech-worts.”

  “My leaves and herbs are at Hild’s house.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  She put her fingers to her temple. “Are her sons among the wounded?”

  “No, my lady, I saw them walking with the others. Shall I fetch your things and bring them to you?”

  “Yes. Yes, thank you.”

  Káta lifted her skirts, urgency compelling her to run out of the little valley, but fear slowing her steps back to her own manor. The resulting hurried walk pounded her shins. The path-side brambles scratched at her ankles, but she put the pain away, to suffer later. At Ashleigh, she shouted to those in and around the hall. “Look lively, stir yourselves. The men are coming home.”

  Gytha put down her besom and walked towards the doorway. “When?”

  Káta glanced over her shoulder at the gate. “Now.”

  They came in at the speed of the slowest man’s walk; even those who were unscathed and on horseback moved at a weary pace. Káta and Gytha scanned them all and went to those who at first glance seemed most in need of help. One of the horses had been pulling a litter, and Káta went to tend the man who was lying on it. She dropped to her knees, lifted back the blankets of fur, and saw the closed-eyed face of her husband.

  Helmstan, roused by her gasp, spoke in a drowsy whisper. “Do not be worrying about me, Wife. It is but a wounded foot, swollen too sore to let me ride.” The corners of his mouth lifted a little. “My lord Alvar is glad to tell all who ask, that a Welsh arrow struck me whilst I was fleeing.”

  Her shoulders relaxed and she smiled. Then she pursed her lips, stood up, and folded her arms. “And where is the man who led you into this?”

  “Thank you for worrying, but I merely have a slight sword wound to the shoulder. It only broke the flesh and is not deep.”

  She looked up at Alvar. He smiled, but blinked with slow-moving lids. He had one hand on the reins and the other arm in a makeshift sling fashioned from a linen undershirt. It was darkly stained with blood.

  Káta’s mouth was dry. Her head thumped from the ache of anxiety, and her stomach, tied in knots of fear since she first heard that there were wounded amongst the men, now gurgled to remind her that she had not eaten all day.

  “Gytha, which of these halfwits should I see to first? The earl is hurt the worst, but during a game of his own making. My lord husband is not so badly wounded, but did not bring it upon himself; he merely followed his lord.”

  A few of the men sniggered.

  Gytha said, “Your lord needs to be taken to his bed and a bolster put under his foot. His lord needs a new binding for his wound, and some chicken broth with marrow and melted butter.”

  Káta turned round to the men and smiled. “Yes, laugh, for you are home, and you are alive. You are blessed, be glad. Leave your swords and spears.” Young Haward had arrived with her medicine stores and she set him to work collecting all the weapons. “Send the swords to the smith for sharpening and ask him to put new hafts on the spears. Then find what you can in the bake-house to fill your belly.” She smiled. “By way of thanks for your help.”

  The sun had almost set and they shepherded the men into the hall to warm by the fire. Two thegns helped Káta settle Helmstan into his bed and she inspected his wound.

  He sat up on his elbows. “I must go to the hall. There are deeds that I must speak of and there must be a gift-giving. These men fought well…”

  Káta pushed him down flat again. “You will bide in your bed for a week, otherwise sitting on a gift-stool is all you will be strong enough to do for the next year.” She put aside all notions of restful sleep. “I am the one who must be in the hall.” She planted a hurried kiss upon his brow and went back to the hall.

  Someone must have helped Alvar from his horse, for she found him already seated on one of the cushioned benches.

  “Gytha, can you bring me a candle-staff?” She picked up a chair and sat down in front of him. “I made light of your wound. Is it sore?”

  “It smarts, but only like a bee sting. It will be but another scar soon enough, to go with all my others.”

  She cast her gaze downward, reminded of her comment years before, when she had compared childbirth to sword wounds, and hoping that he would not offer to show her any of these other scars, but he seemed bent on behaving himself and no lewd comment came forth. Small wonder, for by the time Gytha placed the candlestick on the table, Alvar’s head had slumped forward and he was fast asleep.

  “When I sat up all night and watched you sleeping, it was so that I could see to your needs after you were wounded. I did not think to have my kindness repaid in this way. For days now you have… Will you hand me the shears?” She cut the thread and put the scissors on the ground. “My lord, you sat while Gytha and I swept the floor and put down new straw, then you followed me when I went to fetch the loaves and even tried to help me with your one good arm. Have you never seen a woman sewing before? Even now I feel you staring at me as I stitch.”

  “Like a cat looks upon a mouse?”

  She rested her mending on her lap and looked up. “No, it puts me more in mind of… I had a gosling once, which hatched out and took me for its mother. It, too, followed me all about.”

  He sat still on his stool, his good arm raised to shield his eyes from the sunshine, but despite his efforts, the grey eyes squinted as he looked at her. He said nothing, but a smile twitched his lips.

  She made a few more stitches and said, “You were never so keen to keep near to me before.”

  “I was never so near to death before.”

  “Forgive me for laughing, but did you not say it was but a bee
sting?” She stabbed at the cloth with her needle. “Well then, I will speak while you listen. I have no tales, but I believe that the scop has been sent for to proclaim the boldness of young Lyfing. My lord will call him first up to the gift-stool to reward him for his fearlessness. Is it true, then, that he stood in death’s way that my husband might live?” She pulled another stitch through the cloth. “This linen is unsmooth. My husband needs new… My lord, is it true, that Lyfing…” She looked up, but he had gone.

  Káta tutted, made a few more stitches and sighed.

  Gytha walked by with her arms wrapped around a cluster of logs. She slowed, but did not stop. “What is wrong, Lady?”

  As Gytha walked on, Káta said, “I spoke as if I thought him a blain, always with me. But now he has wandered away and it feels more like a butterfly has flown off.”

  She left her mending on the stool and looked about outside, but concluded that he was busy elsewhere and would find her if he chose to. With the household still swollen with the men not fit yet to go home, she needed to be in consultation with Leofsige more frequently, and went to the kitchen to discuss the day’s meals with him. The cook-house was always warm and Káta was glad not to have bothered with a veil that morning. A tall figure stood by the table and she called out as she stepped inside the dark building.

  “Leofsige? Did you hear me?” It took a few seconds to see after the brightness of the outdoors. It was Alvar, not Leofsige, who was standing beside the table, gnawing on a lump of bread. She paused with one foot forward, her upper body turned ready for retreat. “You do not have to fetch your own food, my lord. Speak out at any time, and my folk will bring whatever you crave.”

  “I thought that eating would take my mind off this.” He pointed to his wound. “It itches.” He stuffed the last of the bread into his mouth.