Alvar the Kingmaker

by Annie Whitehead

“You must keep using the cleansing salve that I gave you, at least until the whole wound has scabbed. It is a shame that we have no shellfish in the summer, for that would make your blood good again. Leofsige will bring you pease, honeyed and peppered. You must eat it all.” Made braver by this demonstration of expertise, she took a deep breath and moved into the room. “I need to look over my healing things.” She opened the communal herb box and pretended to count, before taking a key from her belt to open the lock on her spice store.

  She checked the contents of the box and he chewed the last of the food. He took a sip of ale, but still looked at her even as he raised the cup to his lips.

  “You have been staring at me for days now, my lord. If there is something you would do or say you are nearly too late, for my bed-ridden husband will soon be on his feet again.”

  “Nearly?”

  She dropped the saffron onto the table and tried to scoop up the expensive strands. “I… I only meant that you have had the three days welcome that is owed to you in law. Not that we would not be glad to offer you a longer welcome; and the wounded, and our hall is yours for as long as…”

  He took a step towards her and though her fingers shook, she managed to lock the spice box and return it to the side table. From there, she hoped to make her escape. She turned round. He was standing before her, his expression the same as on the day he had ridden out of the manor to Wales. He looked into her eyes and she could not turn her head.

  She looked down. “My lord, I…”

  He put his good arm on her shoulder, placed the wounded one on her waist, and bent to kiss her on her open mouth. He caught her bottom lip between his own lips and held it there for just one heartbeat.

  He turned on his heel and walked outside.

  She ran her finger along her lip and cursed her inability to tell indifference from passion. She had been taking only half-breaths, and now she snatched air into her lungs and held onto the table to steady herself. Her cheeks were hot so they must be red, and the shake in her hands would mark her out to anyone as an adulteress, so she stayed a while in the cook-house. She checked the stocks, looked to see which of the dried meats Leofsige had soaked ready to be cooked, and measured portions of dried beans and peas to be added to the pot. When at last she felt able to step outside, she took a few deep breaths, put a hand up to check that her hair was in place, and made her way back up to the hall.

  Once, she had hinted that her feelings for him were more than they ought to be. But, rightly, he had not responded, and she thought that they had both forgotten about it. Yet now he had kissed her. Why? Wasn’t it the queen whom he loved? Hadn’t he said as much, down by the river that day? She touched her fingertips to her lips. She might at one time have thought of that kiss as a gift. What on earth was she supposed to do with such a gift now?

  Her mending was still on the stool. The yard was empty save for a solitary chicken, until Leofsige came out of the hall frowning and carrying a large purse of coin.

  Káta said, “Have you seen Lord Alvar?”

  “Gone, my lady. He gave me this for the feeding of the wounded men, then he upped and left.”

  Chapter Twelve AD969

  Winchester

  The baby’s squalls broke the silence once more and Alvar looked round the hall. Brock smiled, but others looked peeved. Alvar leaned forward to whisper to his brother. “If any man thinks ill of her bringing the bairns with her, he should look at the king and think again.” He nodded towards Edgar, who smiled at Alfreda and received a half smile, half lip-licking invitation. “It is not hard to see why Edgar will give her aught she asks for.”

  Brock chuckled. “Nor is it hard to see why you keep staring over there.”

  “Where else is there to look? I am bored. Beorn is not here. I do not blame him though; Northumbria is a long way off and he is busy fighting the Scots. Apart from you, who is there to amuse me? Brandon is a dull fart and the Red Lord of Oxford is not red any more, but old and grey and speaks only of his aches and twinges. Bishop Athelwold is asleep,” he looked behind him, “And I find I cannot look at Guthrum without staring, for I have seen thinner necks on a bull.”

  The Viking sailor, mercenary and proud of it, was standing against the wall, arms folded. Many were wary of the man who furnished Edgar with a fleet and yet who was tied to the king only by the money paid to him as a hireling.

  Brock began a laugh that ended as a cough. “Yes, it is a little like having a bear to keep watch over your house; those within are almost as frightened as those without. I must say though, that like so many others, I should also give up the witan and sit at home by my hearth in my old age. I swear I have aches and twinges to match those of the Red Lord.”

  Alvar signalled for drinks. “That is not so, brother. You are young yet and…”

  Oswald and Brandon were seated nearest the window, heads bent together. In the sunlight, Brandon’s hair gleamed gold. He looked young next to Oswald, but he must be… Alvar counted the years. If Brandon was twenty-six, the same age as Edgar, then Alvar was… “Thirty-three. Can it be? And that makes you almost fifty.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind, I was but reckoning out loud. Now, what do you think those two are speaking about?”

  Brock shrugged. “From the way they keep sending black looks over here, I would say you have done something that they do not like.”

  Alvar waited for his brother’s coughing fit to subside and said, “Naught new there, then. It seems I upset the East Anglians even whilst I sleep.” He sat back. “Dear God in heaven, will this witenagemot ever be over and done with? Four days of laws and land-gifts and my legs are set fast, bent forever.”

  Brock’s shoulders shook, but he kept his laugh in. “Go and wander, then, for they will be some time yet, I fear.”

  Up on the dais, the scribes were still bent into a huddle with Edgar and Dunstan. Alvar stared beyond them to the view through the window. The royal palace nestled between the old and new minsters, close to the ancient Roman town wall. He sniffed and wrinkled his nose, never at ease penned in behind the old fortifications of the empire. Monks swarmed like black ants on the busy route between the great hall and the bishop’s palace, but aside from them and the occasional view of a guard out on the wall, there was nothing of interest to look at, the market stalls being all pitched to the northeast of the town. Alvar sighed and stood up. He eased his legs, rubbed his backside, and moved behind the fan of chairs spread in front of the dais. He walked over to the corner of the hall and bowed before the queen. He tickled the baby lying in her lap, and sat down. The child by her feet looked up at Alvar and smiled, and the earl scooped him onto his knee.

  Alvar ruffled the boy’s hair. The youngling was named after his grandfather, Edmund, but Alvar addressed him by his nickname. “Leof, I swear you grow heavier by the day.” He turned his head to look at the queen. “You are well, lady?”

  “Well enough, though I do not like this hall, with only one room off it. I have grown used to larger buildings, like the houses in London. However, the king keeps me rich in sundry tokens of his love, for here you see I have given him not one, but two athelings.” She smiled proudly at her newborn son, before reaching across to the boy on Alvar’s lap. “And this one so like his father.”

  Alvar bounced the four-year-old up and down on his lap and the golden curls bobbed as the child moved. “Sometimes they can be fair like the mother, not the father. Soon he will be asking to swim and be swung in the air.” He swallowed hard. “God grant that…” He coughed. “God gift it that little Leof will be as strong a king as Lord Edgar has been,” he said.

  In the opposite corner, also behind the semi-circle of chairs, Prince Edward was sitting with Abbot Sideman, his tutor. While the abbot’s head was bent low over a book, Edward began to tease a spider that was quivering in its web on the wall. Blowing gently on the silky fibres, he tempted the spider to shoot towards the vibrations, and pulled on its legs before letting it retreat so that he could
torment it all over again.

  “His very being is what stops me from letting these children far from my sight,” Alfreda said.

  “Edward is the king’s eldest child, but there is no man here who would harbour thoughts of wrongdoing in his name. Your sons are the athelings, not him.”

  “No, you do not understand, my lord. I spoke of Edward himself. Only last week I found him gripping so tightly onto Leof’s arm that he brought tears to my little son’s eyes. But I think I know why he behaves so badly; it must have been hard for him, wrenched away from his mother.” She stared off into the middle distance.

  “Lady, I think your thoughts fly to your own sons, growing up so far away in East Anglia.” Alvar knew that Alfreda had worked hard to get her older sons returned to her, but whilst she might have given up hope, she was probably ignorant of the reason for the continued separation. No doubt Edgar would have been charming in response to her requests but he was no fool; he would not welcome to his court the fully grown sons of his queen. Adults who could claim atheling status would be a threat to his kingship and certainly to that of Leof. He said, “You might be right. Edward might feel the loss of his mother as keenly as your own sons do, but a child can be sad without feeling the need to make others weep. From what I know of Edward, he is a bad-tempered youth who makes it hard for men to love him.”

  Alfreda said, “I think he craves what my new sons have. I think he would have the warmth of his mother.”

  “I think he is a little shit,” Alvar said.

  As if to prove the point for him, Edward chose that moment to complain to his tutor of boredom. The gentle Sideman explained that the benefits of watching the rudiments of statecraft would be visited upon him, “One hundred-fold when you become king.”

  “No. Will not listen.” In a movement quick enough to confuse the eyes of witnesses, Edward brought his hand up and slapped the abbot across the face.

  The king, in the centre of the semi-circle and with his back to that corner of the room, was still speaking to Dunstan and had not seen, but, looking over Edgar’s shoulder, Dunstan saw how many among the lords and officials stared, and then squirmed in their seats as Abbot Sideman now attempted to ease the boy from his sulk and persuade him to leave the room. The servants cowered against the walls, and Sideman had to hiss his whispers against the silence.

  Dunstan watched as Lord Alvar handed the atheling Leof back to his mother, and made his way over to Edward. He placed a hand on Sideman’s shoulder and then spoke to the boy in such low tones that it was impossible for him to be overheard, but when he had finished Edward stood up and left the room without saying another word.

  Alvar sat back down next to his brother, Lord Brock. Dunstan, released from the king’s attention, took a moment to study the lord of Mercia, and wondered whether he should adjust his opinion of the man he had long since condemned as self-serving and amoral. The quiet efficiency with which he had quelled the disturbance was admirable in itself, but Alvar had eschewed to inform the king, thus denying himself both the opportunity to earn any plaudits for calming the disturbance and to point out the obnoxious behaviour of a child of whose very existence, by his own admission, he thoroughly disapproved.

  The scribe nearest to Edgar cleared his throat and prepared to read out the details of the next document, and Dunstan noted the boredom displayed by the warrior earl now that he was forced to sit still and listen once more. Lord Alvar flicked his middle finger against his arm ring, creating a clinking sound, which alerted the good bishop of Worcester.

  Bishop Oswald leaned forward and said, “Does it all take too long, my lord of Mercia? Such a shame, that we must wait while it is written. This is bad enough, but then it must be read aloud two times, for those who do not understand the Latin.”

  Lord Alvar looked at Oswald from under raised eyebrows. “What need have we for the Latin? The true gift is when the turf is cut and handed over to the man by his lord. How many Romans do you see at this witenagemot, lord Bishop? I see Saxons, Angles, Mercian Danes, I see Norsemen. I can speak to them all and they understand me.”

  Dunstan sniffed. A few more learned Europeans and a few less uncultured northerners would be more to his liking. At least the barbarian Northumbrians had had the good grace to stay away from this moot.

  Brandon, seated to Oswald’s right, smoothed his hair and said, “My lord Bishop has lent me one or two books. I read them in the Latin, for I do have the book-craft.”

  They all looked at Alvar, who appeared unimpressed. “My lords, had I the time to spare to read books, I would not waste it by reading books.”

  They nodded and smiled, and Oswald turned to Dunstan and mouthed the word, “Oaf.”

  Dunstan, aware above all of the dignity of his position, only felt able to acknowledge the comment with a slight nod.

  The scribe read the details of the land grant. “Given this day to Ælfwold, ten hides at Kineton, Warwickshire…”

  Lord Alvar sat back and folded his arms.

  The scribe continued. “Sit autem praedictum rus omni terrenae servitutis jugo liberum tribus exceptis rata videlicet expeditione pontis…”

  Oswald opened his mouth.

  Alvar said, “Yes, thank you, but if I did not know that such land comes free for a lifetime with naught owed but the upkeep of bridges and the rebuilding of walls and earthworks, I would be a sorry sight for an earl, would I not?”

  Oswald shut his mouth.

  Dunstan found himself wondering for the second time whether it wasn’t time to revise his assessment of this bone-headed soldier.

  The scribe finished in English. “These are the edges of the land: from Wellesbourne to the furrow, from the furrow to the ditch, from the ditch on the edge to the made road, from the made road to the foul pit, from the foul pit to the springs, from the springs to the edge of Mercia, from the edge of Mercia to Grundlinga-brook, along the stream, from that stream to Fidestan…”

  Now Lord Alvar looked like the fox that got the chicken. No wonder; Dunstan knew from his days as bishop of Worcester that the edge of Mercia to which the charter referred was that of the boundary between old Mercia and the land of the Hwicce. He had always counselled Edgar to express his gratitude of the peoples who helped him to gain his throne, but, in acknowledging their ancient borderlines, did the king need continuously to feed the Mercians’ self-importance?

  In only a few more seconds, the witan resumed its business. Dunstan felt the tension leaving his hunched shoulders. This was church business, and, as such, far less vexatious.

  A scribe nudged the sleeping Bishop Athelwold, who snorted, pressed the knuckle of his forefinger into his eyelid and rubbed hard. He stood up and introduced his new treatise. Dunstan smiled. The bishop had been working on his Regularis Concordia for some time, worried, as all the reformers were, that some monasteries were embracing the rule of St Benedict less quickly than others. Athelwold eloquently outlined the need for uniformity, and announced the new rules, which decreed that all bishops would live with the monks, that all churchmen would forgo the right to write a will, and Dunstan nodded as each point was declared. But he sat forward as swiftly as if he had been thrown out of his chair when Athelwold presented a bound volume of his new monastic laws to the king’s wife, and informed her that the complete work was dedicated to her. Dunstan concentrated on the emerald on his ring, polishing it vigorously with his thumb. His sanguine mood was fading away, to be replaced by the familiar irritation that the wrong people, secular people, immoral people, were benefiting from Edgar’s reign.

  He turned his head at the sound from beyond the door.

  A man was shouting and there was a scuffle outside in the antechamber. More shouting followed and the door banged open. A king’s thegn rushed in, but kept his hand on the open door, jerking to a standstill when his arm extended back fully. “Lord King, Sigehelm of York is here and says he must speak to you forthwith. I told him that he should not…”

  The king said, “Bid him come to me. I
will hear him.”

  The thegn stepped back into the corridor and pulled the door half shut. After a few muttered words Sigehelm of York hurried into the chamber and bowed low before Edgar.

  “Lord King, I bring grim tidings. Some men from York rode many miles to the town of Thanet, with naught on their minds but to sell their wares and make a fair penny. Little did they know what would betide them there.” Sigehelm stared around the room through rapid blinks as if realising for the first time that the hall was full of nobles.

  Dunstan said, “Get on then, man, and tell us. W-what did betide them there at Thanet?”

  “The men were set upon my lord, badly beaten, their goods stolen and their gold, too. I have seen their wounds with my own eyes, and have brought with me twelve men who will swear an oath that I speak the truth.”

  Edgar’s nostrils twitched. He put a hand on Dunstan’s and beckoned Lord Alvar to join them in a huddle by the dais. He did not frown, and his voice stayed at its normal pitch, but his speech came sibilant through a jaw held tighter than usual. “We cannot let this lawlessness stand. Townsfolk and craftsmen do not have hearth-fellows or thegns. I am their lord, for they have no other. I will deal with this wickedness in such a way that no man will ever think to do another such foul deed. I will have it known that all men are free to ride in my land without fear, be they Englishmen or Danes. What say you, my lords?”

  Dunstan looked across at his friend Oswald. It was never good news when Englishmen displayed their dislike of any men they deemed foreigners. He nodded and said, “I will go to the bishop’s house and hear the sworn oaths of the twelve witnesses, my lord, although I know in my heart that this man Sigehelm speaks the truth. It must be d-dealt with, as you say.”

  Edgar nodded. Without turning his head he said, “Lord Alvar, I would hear your thoughts.”

  “These men of York were about lawful business and their robbers laugh at you, my lord. No man must ever think that he can do such evil and not be brought to answer for it. This law-breaking must be dealt with swiftly.”