Edgar nodded. His brow remained un-furrowed but a bead of sweat hovered there. “I knew that we would all be as one on this.”
Dunstan felt his mouth wrinkling as his teeth clenched. God forgive him but his pride bristled when Edgar spoke as if he and the earl were apples from the same tree.
Edgar put his hand on Dunstan’s arm. “Dear friend, I know that I can leave the kingdom in your hands while I ride to deal with this.”
The compliment pushed Dunstan’s shoulders back and brought him up to stand tall. But he slumped almost as quickly when Edgar’s words echoed in his head and this time, he listened to them properly. An archbishop ruling in the king’s stead might wield power for a short while, but the glory would fall on those who showed impressive martial strength. The upstart must not ride with Edgar. “Lord King, Guthrum the seaman takes plenty of your gold. Is it not time that he earned it? If you go to the aid of Norsemen with a Norse fleet, you will prove how mindful you are of your debt to the northerners.”
Edgar nodded and strode off towards Guthrum. The leader of the mercenary fleet nodded while Edgar spoke, but one foot began inching forward immediately and he was ready to stride away as soon as the king had finished talking.
Bishop Oswald leaned nearer. He smiled at the archbishop and said, “So Edgar is sending Guthrum to Thanet. Not the lords of Wessex, or Mercia, but the Norseman. He sends ships, not the fyrd. Did the lord Alvar hurt himself when he tripped over his pride?”
Lord Alvar revealed his coarse nature with his answer. Grinding his fist into the palm of his other hand he said, “Bishop, I will not speak my thoughts; it would only show me to be the swearer of foul oaths that you already think I am.”
The bishop laughed and smiled at Dunstan once more.
Lord Alvar breathed in through his nose so hard that his nostrils flared. “But do not worry, Bishop Oswald, for one day I will twist your smirk like a rock bends a ploughshare.” He sat back and worried away at a loose piece of skin by his fingernail.
Dunstan laid a calming hand on Oswald’s arm. It was clear that Alvar was agitated by Edgar’s decision to leave him behind. With Edgar away and Dunstan left in charge, Alvar would be isolated. And so would the king’s wife.
There was a loud snorting noise and the Red Lord’s head, grey and bent and fragile, rolled forward and jerked up again.
Edgar strode back to the dais, rubbing his hands. “Guthrum has gone to make ready, so we must not be far behind. Alvar, get your men from all over Mercia; we will go in with so many weapon-men that they will rue the day. Oh yes, and when we get back, I will gift the Red Lord’s lands to you. He grows old and tired. He has told me himself that he has the bladder weakness that always leads to sickness in an older man.”
Dunstan heard a strange, high-pitched squeak and knew that it had emanated from Lord Brandon. He noticed that Lord Alvar wasted no time, even forgetting to bow to his king before he ran out of the hall.
Men began to stand, scraping their chairs back while discussing the day’s events as they filed out of the hall to relieve themselves before the feast. Servants came into the hall to drag trestle tables from the walls and set them up, and kitchen-hands walked through with plates of bread and jugs of ale and wine.
Brandon came to stand next to Dunstan and the older man sensed that he was shaking. Brandon addressed Edgar. “Lord King, if you have a moment before you leave?”
Edgar looked at his wife and then at the door to his private chamber. “I was thinking that I might…”
Brandon spoke at the same time. “It will not take long.” He, too, glanced at the queen and was rewarded with an icy glare. He swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Lord King, Foster-brother, it was always my hope that the Red Lord’s lands would come back to my…”
Alfreda placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder and moved her thumb in a circle of massage. She whispered close to his ear and then smiled and looked down at the floor, where she moved her foot from side to side and let it brush Edgar’s shoe. Her actions were so redolent of another king’s wife, an evil influence, that Dunstan found the name Jezebel whirling round his brain like a taunting sing-song.
“Yes, my love, you are right.” Edgar lifted her hand and kissed it. “I will speak to the bishop about Peterborough.” He said to Brandon, “My lord…”
Dunstan noted that he did not reciprocate and call him his brother.
“My wife spoke earlier to our friend Bishop Athelwold, who wishes to rebuild the abbey at Peterborough. She has reminded me that you would be thankful indeed at the thought of another great abbey growing strong in East Anglia.” He stared at Brandon for a moment. “It is a great gift, is it not?”
Brandon made another peculiar noise.
Edgar said to Alfreda, “Shall we go now my love? Can a woman be brought for the children for a time? I will need to leave soon.”
In the opulence of Bishop Athelwold’s palace Dunstan felt comfortable. If ever he could not be at Canterbury, then Winchester was an acceptable substitute. Fine wine in ornate gold flagons had been left for them on tables covered with decorated linen cloths. The chair cushions were soft, with smooth coverings that were a salve to his aching legs. But no amount of luxury or bodily comfort could soothe their fractious spirits this day. He and Oswald silently sipped their wine and Dunstan knew that Oswald was seething just as much as he. Alvar had the Devil’s own luck and Dunstan needed to pray strongly if he were going to find a way to bring him down and remove this block to the Lord’s work.
Oswald put his cup down on the table, where its base sat precisely over one of the flowers on the patterned cloth. He dabbed at his lips with a napkin and placed it, neatly folded, back on the table. “If one wishes to hurt a man, then one must find what it is that he truly cherishes. Only two things matter to Alvar: his land, and his lineage.”
“Go on.”
“There is an abbey in my diocese. Evesham is in need of reform. It sits on land held by Lord Alvar that was once held by his great and hallowed father. It would not be much trouble for me to find a way to argue that the land was stolen by his father and that it should come back to the Church.”
Dunstan took another sip of wine and swirled it round his mouth before swallowing. It warmed his throat briefly before slipping down his gullet. He remembered Alvar’s father. The family power base was southwest Mercia, the former kingdom of the Hwicce in the diocese of Worcester. In one deft manoeuvre, Oswald could weaken Alvar’s power base, deprive the earl of prized revenue, and tarnish the name of his esteemed father by branding him a thief. Oh yes, that should hit the over-mighty lord where it hurt most.
Dunstan broke a long-standing habit and reached to pour his own wine. “Another drink, Bishop?”
Chapter Thirteen AD972
Shrewsbury
He glanced at Brock’s chair. He looked at the new steward. He gazed at the table where Brock and he had sat with Beorn of Northumbria last month, the day before Beorn travelled northward to resume his tussle with the Scots. Again, he looked at Brock’s seat. If he were a man who ever thought he could be wrong, he would have listened to his brother’s complaints of aches and pains. Now the empty chair no longer groaned under Brock’s barrel-weight, the man was in his grave, and all joy had gone from Alvar’s life.
Helmstan leaned in towards his lord and said, “I see where your eyes wander. It is hard for you to be in this meeting room without him, I know.”
Alvar stared out across the meeting chamber, nodded once, but could not speak.
Helmstan said, “How is Lady Alswytha?”
Alvar swallowed hard and tested his voice with a forced cough. “Swytha is a rich widow, for she held land in her own right, too. But she was wed to the man for thirty years and they loved each other well.” He cleared his throat again. “I held her while her tears fell, and I held her as she told me that she could not weep hard enough to get out the sorrow from inside. I thought that she would break from the sadness, and I did not know if I had the stren
gth left in my arms to hold her if she did.” His voice cracked on the last word and he coughed and repeated it. “Did.”
Wulfgar, seated to Alvar’s left, said, “And barely was the burial over than the monk from Evesham came.”
Helmstan leaned forward to see past Alvar. “Evesham? Why?”
“The monk came to tell our lord that the abbey was to be rebuilt; that they were taking back the lands which his father stole and that our lord was now keeping unlawfully.”
Helmstan exhaled with a whistle. “Truly, my lord, they did this?”
Alvar looked straight ahead. “I read their page of dross and threw it into the fire. I was in no mood to… And yet…” Only afterwards had the thought come; so many loose threads that, of a sudden, could be caught in his mind and made into a rope: no sooner had he knelt to receive the Red Lord’s lands in Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire than word came from Evesham. All of the secular monks put out, and Alvar’s father declared a petty thief on the very day Brock was laid in the ground.
“And yet, my lord?”
“I think that there are those who sought to kick me at a time when most it would wound.”
On the other side of the room, Oswald and Brandon leaned in with symmetry and spoke in low whispers. Oswald’s parchment face barely moved, but Brandon nodded at the older man’s every word.
Wulfgar said, “And you must have been hoping to see the back of Oswald, now that he has become archbishop of York.”
Who could forget the tales which had filtered back from the continent, of Oswald’s majestic progress to Rome? One of Brock’s last worries as steward was establishing who was responsible for his lavish spending on his slow journey to the pope.
Alvar snorted a laugh. “Yes. I thought I was rid of him. I even teased Beorn about it, telling him that from now on he would be the one to feel Oswald’s breath on his neck, while the old crow filled York minster with his kin. Little did I know.”
Helmstan said, “I did think it was not lawful, to be both a bishop and an archbishop at once?”
“Maybe he could not bear to leave me?” Alvar smiled and shook his head. “No, it is not lawful. All of us believed, rightly, that in order to go to York he would have to leave Worcester behind. This is church law. And I found myself once again thinking how some men can bend the shape of their beliefs to fit their wishes. But at least I know why Edgar let Oswald become archbishop at York.”
Wulfgar leaned across the table, picked up the jug and splashed ale into their three cups. “Go on, my lord.”
“Firstly, he had given more land to me and did not want to tip the scales too far on one side. Secondly, the archbishops of York have long been a law unto themselves. This way, Edgar can bind York to the south whilst keeping an eye on Northumbria. It is but another show of his strength within his kingdom.”
Wulfgar drained his cup. “Earl Beorn will not like it.”
Alvar gripped his ale cup, but he had yet to lift it to his lips. “Our lord King always gives with one hand as he takes with the other. Beorn’s bitter brew will be sweetened by the new law. As one of three leading earls in the land, his standing in the north is at least the same as Oswald’s.”
Helmstan said, “I nod to Edgar’s wisdom. He now has two men in the north who have ties to him and to the south. They will watch the northerners and each other. Beorn’s heightened standing will mean that he is mightier than ever and it should, as you say, sweeten the stink a little as the bishop breathes his stench all over York.”
Alvar’s cheek twitched. “That might be so, but Oswald still tramples all over Worcester. I am not rid of him either.”
“You can come to Cheshire any time you like, my lord, where we will not speak his name.”
“Does Wulfgar not work hard when I send him?” Alvar raised his cup, but it slid through his hand. He put it down and wiped his palm on his breeches.
“Yes, my lord. We work well together.” Helmstan exchanged a glance with Wulfgar. “It is only that you seldom come yourself now.”
“I am needed near Worcester. Riding to Cheshire takes time that I can no longer spare. I am not a man now who has time to play.” Alvar stared ahead, but on either side of him he was aware of the shrugs and raised eyebrows.
The general hum of lowered voices faded away, as awareness grew that the king was ready to reconvene the meeting.
Edgar looked round the room and smiled at each of his councillors, before his gaze settled on Bishop Athelwold. “Now we will have written down the gift to our beloved Bishop Athelwold of the aforesaid land at Barrow-on-Humber, this to be given to help to build up the abbey at Peterborough.”
Brandon squirmed in his seat and bobbed up and down.
“My lord of East Anglia, you would speak?”
Brandon ran a hand through his hair and smiled at the gathering. “I would let it be known that I am following your lead, lord King. As you have given land to Bishop Athelwold to help Peterborough, so I will give land. My house is at Upwood, so I have no need of my father’s lands at Ramsey. The house, the land, all of it, is henceforth gifted to the archbishop of York, where he can begin to build an abbey.”
Wulfgar hissed. “Oswald in the fenland? My lord, they cannot.”
Helmstan said, “It might be only sodden marshland, but it was always Mercian, and many folk who live there still think of themselves of Mercian. And besides, Oswald’s reach is spreading far too far.”
Alvar said, “I know.” He put his hands on the table with a thump. “My lord King, after Peterborough, this is one step too many.”
Edgar sat motionless in his chair. With pointed reference to Alvar’s new title, he said, “Is it, my lord of middle Wessex?”
Our lord King always gives with one hand as he takes with the other. Alvar could only smile wryly as he recalled the conversation that morning, when Edgar told him that he had shown ‘Kindness beyond reckoning in looking after the widow we know as Swytha. You have overseen Brock’s lands since his death, and now I gift those lands to you.’
Alvar filled his lungs and held his breath. He exhaled in a slow, controlled, silent whistle. He had let himself believe that Mid-Wessex was the sweetener against Oswald’s continued presence at Worcester, perhaps even Edgar’s acknowledgement that Evesham was a crime scene. But Ramsey? This was moving the fight to a new field.
Oswald stood up and went to speak to the scribes. They waved their arms in a flurry of black sleeves and pen feathers.
Helmstan spoke out of the side of his mouth. “They do not understand. Ramsey is in the fenland that once belonged to Danish Mercia. It should come to you, my lord.”
If it was even within Brandon’s gift, being in disputed territory. Alvar said, “Oh, they understand. Believe that, if you believe naught else in your time on earth.”
Edgar leaned forward while Dunstan spoke. He nodded, and sat back.
Dunstan stood up to address the council. Sixty-two now, he stood less steadily and kept one hand always on the table, but his back remained straight and he held his head erect. “My lords, we of the Church can only give thanks that our most righteous and God-fearing king and his wom…” He coughed and his jowls wobbled. “And his queen, help us to grow strong. Who among us d-does not also long for a mark of a strong England? Truly, I say to you all…”
Wulfgar said, “Look over there; I would dearly like to take Oswald’s smirk and shove it up his arse.”
Alvar said, “You will have to get behind me and wait your turn. God forgive me but I see this not as their gift to God but their threat to me. Bishop Athelwold barely misses stepping on my toes on his way to Peterborough, but Oswald takes a knife and sticks it deep into my gut while he cuts the grass at Ramsey.”
He stood up to push his chair back. He looked around the room, sighed and sat back down. “Stamp my feet and tell my woes. But to whom?”
Wulfgar touched his arm. “My lord?”
“Brock is dead and Swytha has taken herself off to a nunnery. Even if Beorn were here he w
ould goad me into a fight before he would lead me out of one.” He looked at Helmstan. “And the only other…”
Helmstan raised his head. “Yes my lord?”
And the only other one who would soothe him was forbidden to him, for he had crossed a line that would see him in hell. “Naught.” He clicked his fingers at a serving-boy. “We will have drinks here. Wulfgar, you must remember that as one of my leading thegns you do not have to fetch your own ale now.” He rested his legs on the empty seat opposite. Edgar was right; this morning he took his seat as lord of all Mercia, from Cheshire to Worcestershire, and as lord of Oxfordshire, Buckinghamshire and Mid-Wessex. He should rest at that and be glad. He raised his cup and drank a silent toast to all those who had once gathered there. He caught the queen’s gaze. “There sits another who has little bliss in her heart.”
Helmstan said, “It was hard for her to lose her beloved Leof, and I would wish that fever on no-one, never mind a little child, but do you see how she now behaves with the other atheling?”
The queen was sitting with her ladies and had her youngest son, Æthelred, on her lap. He wailed and squirmed, but Alfreda held him clamped.
“When my Siferth was barely more than a cradle-child he would find many things to do that need little thought but a lot of daring. Æthelred is nearly three; he should be off his mother’s knee.”
Alvar slapped Helmstan on the back, harder than he meant to. “Forgive me my friend, but you must know how dull it can be for childless men to listen to such tales.”
He stood up and did not answer when Helmstan said, “Then why do you go to the queen…”
As he approached, Alfreda gave Alvar an empty smile and moved along the bench to make room for him. He sat down and fiddled with his garnet ring. He was tempted to pick the child up, but he knew that where once he could have scooped Leof onto his lap, he must leave Æthelred with his mother, for the boy would tolerate no other.
“He misses his godfather Brock,” she said.
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