“You are kind to speak of my loss before your own. We all miss my brother,” he said, “As you and yours grieve for Leof.” He touched her cheek. “So soon after your father’s death, it was an unkind blow.”
Alfreda allowed her tears to fall. She fingered her necklace. “I am now to be known as the lady of all nuns and worship must be said in my name, yet death stalks us all, and prayer is no shield against loss.”
Alvar stared at the necklace, a circle of coloured glass beads in groups of three, separated by gold triangles, set with garnets. At the centre of the circlet hung a gold round, engraved with animal symbols and set with blue glass. There was nothing wrong with displaying the trappings of wealth, certainly no bishop he knew ever dressed shabbily, but there was something about the look of the queen that sat incongruously with her new title as defender of nuns, and at odds with her mourning. It was as if she had become so used to the potency of her feminine allure that she no longer knew when best to display it and when to minimise it.
“I had heard that Athelwold’s book named you thus. But I will not lie and say that I will ever find time to read his work.”
“It seems there is never enough time…” She controlled a sob, but could not continue.
He reached forward and placed his hand on her knee. “My lady, I cannot give the answers you seek, for only God can do that. But as winter comes near, summer will always follow and you must look to the living; your son needs his mother, and your king needs his queen. And you are not friendless.”
She squeezed his hand and the boy on her lap said, “No. My muv-muv.”
She said, “You are a true and kind man, my lord.”
He sat back and smiled. “Do not tell my foes, for were we all to become friends, what a salt-less meal life would become.”
“Your foes are my foes,” she said. “Do not forget that Brandon stood by and did nothing while I was broken by his brother’s hands. Oswald and Dunstan have no love for women, for are we not but weak sinners? Of the churchmen, only Athelwold has been kind to me. And yet Edgar loves us all, whichever side we stand. I am closer to him than any and even I do not understand how he does it.”
Alvar lifted one side of his mouth into half a smile and puffed air through his nostrils. “I could tell you, but there is a bitter feel in my mouth this day, and my words might be soured from it. Let me say this; that he gives us all a reason to love him and he deals, mostly, with even hands. Yet not all are in thrall to him. Our neighbours to the west and north…”
The queen touched his arm with her free hand. “Oh yes, this is something of which I had half heard. My lord, will you tell me? My husband came to our bed last night in a sore temper and I could not lift his mood.”
He said, “I do not know if anyone can. In Wales, the sons of Idwal are still fighting each other. One of them is now king of Gwynedd and is a mean, dark little man with many foes. He holds one of his brothers in a cell, which I hear has not pleased his nephew. And last year, the king of the Isles, whose name is Maccus, harried Gwynedd and now his brother, Gothfrith, has done the same.”
“But why would the Welsh with all their fighting make Edgar so wroth?”
Alvar shook his head. Edgar was indignant that any man would dare fight so close to English lands, and had spoken to Alvar of his desire to broker peace in return for gratitude, or even servitude, from these neighbouring lands. But it was the effrontery of the Scots which had turned the king’s mood sour. “It is not only the Welsh that vex him, though they do not help. In Scotland, the son of the king of Strathclyde has killed the king of Alba, which is nobody’s business but their own, but…”
“Yes?” She shifted the wriggling Æthelred from one knee to the other, but the child would not be appeased, and whined until she lifted him up so that he could stand on her knees. He bent his legs and bounced up and down until she winced.
“But there is a man, Kenneth, who is kin to the slain king of Alba. He moved in when both kingdoms were weakened by the fighting and now claims to be king of both Alba and Strathclyde. He thinks this makes him mighty enough to have some of Northumbria to boot.” He forbore to mention that Kenneth had also taken the son of Beorn’s deputy as a hostage. The queen had burdens enough, without learning of yet another displaced son.
“And Northumbria belongs to Edgar. Little wonder, then, that my husband would not be soothed last night. I began to think that he no longer finds me fair.”
“Lady, only madness or a sickness of the soul would keep a man from craving you.”
Her hand went to her veil. She forced the child to sit back down on her lap, and sat upright. She smoothed her dress over the curve of her bosom. “I thank you for your kind words, my lord.”
“I speak the truth; that is all.” He looked over his shoulder. “I must go back. Edgar will not let these things rest and we have much to speak about.”
“Ah, has this something to do with Dunstan’s great show; a second king-making? Can such a thing be done, do you think?”
He grinned and said, “Edgar wills it, Dunstan craves it, and I say let it be done. Therefore, it will, indeed, be done.”
He slapped his hand down on her knee and the child Æthelred’s lips quivered.
“Lady, let me not be guilty of the sin of pride, but Dunstan’s show will be merely the gilding of the hilt. It is I who will put the edge on the blade.” He glanced back at Oswald’s carrion flock. “And it will be keen enough to shear any black feathers and stop their flight.”
She tilted her head to one side. “Oh, yes? I feel there is more to this tale than you are willing to give me.”
Dunstan’s sermon was over, and several lords stood up to stretch their legs. Husbands came to talk to their wives, and Alvar winked at Alfreda.
He stood up and shoved his thumbs under his belt. He raised his voice and said, “If you want to see real strength, lady, look not to the west with Dunstan next Pentecost, but let your eyes follow me to the north.”
Chapter Fourteen AD973
Bath
The sun shone in a cloudless sky and cast beams of radiance through the window lights. Dunstan smiled with satisfaction; God had blessed the day. The archbishop breathed in deeply, joyful to be in this place. The abbey, rebuilt by King Offa, had been the only thing about which he and the debauched late king had agreed; the Fairchild had told Dunstan that the abbey church was marvellously built. Now, the community was being reorganised by a devout anchorite who had been busy transforming it into a strict Benedictine chapter, and Dunstan was elated. On his way to the abbey, the archbishop had stopped briefly to marvel at the ruins of the Roman baths. The magnificent upright columns were all that was left of the building though the springs remained. He knew that many of his countrymen still shied away from the place. He was scornful of such superstition, passed on through the generations from ignorant pagan Saxon invaders who had come from the old country and been frightened beyond rational explanation by the towering walls and stone buildings, so alien to their culture but so representative of the aspirations of the Roman Empire. Empire. He liked the concept. Edgar had been negotiating and threatening in order to coerce all the kings of neighbouring lands to stop fighting each other and bow to his higher authority, and what better way to symbolise that than to stage this coronation? Edgar’s first had been a rushed affair, not nearly public enough, and Dunstan was determined that this time the folk would witness a spectacle. He would give the scribes something to fill the pages of their chronicle, the history of their people which had been begun on the orders of that other great king, Alfred.
Edgar looked at once magnificent and humble dressed in his alb, a simple white gown. Dunstan nodded approvingly, glad that he had persuaded the youngster to adopt the clothing of the newly baptised at Whitsun, for was this not a form of initiation, or rebirth? Edgar’s blond curls, lively as ever, softened his face, which was not so boyish now, lined as it was from his habit of bringing his eyebrows closer together whenever he was concentrating. And he
was indeed no longer a boy but a man, thirty years old. This fact also pleased Dunstan, who delighted in the coincidence that he was placing the crown of the empire on the head of a king who was the same age as a clergyman must be ere he acceded to a bishopric. From either side came the sweet sound of the boys singing the psalms, and every now and again, a fresh waft of fragrance would billow across from where the archdeacon stood, swinging the incense holder. The crowd stood in ecstatic silence, smiling blissfully. Dunstan’s spirit was almost replete.
The only irritation, like a bur caught in his sandal, was the sight of the king’s wife and her bastard child. The woman had dressed herself in homespun, but Dunstan was sure, even with his limited knowledge of women, that her cheeks were unnaturally pink, and he was certain it was no accident that there was just enough hair on show beneath her veil that no man could be in any doubt as to her dark-haired beauty.
He breathed in deeply, listened for a moment to the mellifluous voices, and offered up one more silent prayer of thanks. The presence of that woman would not distract him from his task. Edgar might have dubious taste in women, but his devotion to the Church and the cause was unquestionable. This ceremony would mean as much to him as it did to Dunstan.
Now it was time for the oath. Dunstan had searched the scriptures and drawn inspiration from the anointing of Saul and David by Samuel. He had written the oath for Edgar and, although the king would swear it in Latin, Dunstan would ensure that all men who mattered would know the nature of Edgar’s promise: first, that the Church of God and the whole Christian people should have true peace at all time by Edgar’s judgement; second, that he would forbid extortion of all kind and wrongdoing to all orders of men; third, that he would enjoin equity and mercy in all judgements.
He anointed the beloved head with the holy oil, chanted the Latin as he put the crown firmly in place, and led Edgar to his throne. He turned, ready to deliver his sermon. The crowd cheered. The good folk of the English shouted and danced, the boys sang louder and Dunstan stood serene, happy to wait for them to quieten down. While he waited, with his fixed smile, he allowed himself a moment of personal triumph. He had given them a magnificent ceremony; an oath, the anointing, the investiture, and the enthronement. All that remained due was the homage. Well then, Lord Alvar. Better that, if you can.
Chester
Alvar kept his gaze fixed upon the small boat and said, “If either one of you breathes a word of this, I will feed my hounds with your freshly roasted ballocks.”
Wulfgar, speaking with an audible tightness of tone, said, “Forgive me, my lord, but I do not understand. You have ridden at the head of all the weapon-men of England, leading them the whole way from Bath. They would forgive you for being frightened, would they not?”
Helmstan emitted a strange sound, like a chicken being throttled. In a quavering voice he said, “No, Wulfgar, you have it wrong. Our lord is not frightened, but worried; worried that when he spews he will ruin his fine clothes.” He barely got the final word out before his laughter got the better of him.
Alvar turned and glared at them.
Helmstan wiped his eyes and sniffed. “I am sorry, my lord. I merely wonder what the king will say if his leading earl will not…”
“I did not say I would not get in the boat. I only said that I do not trust it to hold us out of the water.”
Wulfgar cleared his throat. “My lord, all these folk…”
“Yes, yes, I know they have all come here to see. It is easy for you; all you have to do is stand here on the wharf and watch as I sink.”
Wulfgar looked back at the crowd. Despite the long wait, their enthusiasm had not yet waned. He shook his head. “They are still throwing blossom into the road. They have waited all this time to hail the king. Why then is this meeting being held on board ship, where they will not be able to see?”
Alvar muttered to himself. “I have begun to ask myself the same question.” He wrinkled his nose, already feeling nauseous. The idea had made sense at the time when it was first mooted. First, the ceremony at Bath would hark back to the days of the Roman Empire, while the subsequent muster of all Edgar’s weapon-men and their procession north would demonstrate his military strength. Edgar was laying claim to a larger realm, and Bath was the perfect setting. The Roman ruins would stir up memories of the Roman notion of Britannia, but, more pertinently, Bath was one of the burhs built by Alfred and it lay on the border between Wessex and Mercia. The ceremony would provide yet more proof of Edgar’s desire to favour neither one former kingdom nor the other, and ensure that the streets from Bath all the way to Chester were lined with folk who had every reason to support a king who had demonstrated his love for all his peoples. Now the paying of homage on board a ship of Edgar’s fleet would be a potent reminder that he also ruled the sea around his kingdom. Alvar took a deep breath and a last look at his companions. He handed Helmstan his sword. “Speak to God for me.” He leaped into the tiny boat. Wishing that his sins took less time to repent, he spent the short voyage from the estuary to the open sea engaged in negotiation with the Almighty.
The little landing craft glided alongside Guthrum’s clinker-built ship, where the Viking captain waited to welcome Alvar aboard. Alvar ducked his head to avoid a low-swooping gull and tried to steady himself. The smell of salt and ropes and tar was an unfamiliar mixture and he swallowed hard. “How do seafarers ever learn to stride about on these things?”
Guthrum grunted a laugh. “For me, it is dry land that does not move enough. Look merry, for you will be the only one. See, over there on the steerboard side.”
Alvar glanced at the assembled dignitaries, most of them pallid and frowning. “I see what you mean.”
Guthrum bowed before backing away and Alvar stepped forward for the formal greetings. The boat rolled and he lost his footing. He righted himself and looked up. The gulls gleamed silver where the sunshine brushed their wings. As they rose and dived, they called out; he heard their cries as laughter, directed at him.
The king and his councillors were seated behind a raised platform. The small table in front of them was covered with a red cloth worked through with gold thread. The edges of the material flapped in the breeze and only the heavy gold plate and lumps of lead used as paperweights for the charter books stopped it from taking off. Edgar’s expression was unreadable, but next to him Oswald, Brandon, and Dunstan had all fixed their mouths into humourless smiles. Each man puffed his cheeks now and again and with each push of air, patted his stomach.
Alvar was amused. If merely stepping aboard had churned his guts, what had they all suffered, sailing round the coast from the earlier ceremony? “It looks as though the waters from Bristol were somewhat less than smooth?”
They did not reply.
He chuckled, taking a natural pleasure in knowing that however sick he felt, they undoubtedly felt worse. In life, such knowledge was usually as good as a cure.
Months of planning and preparation had led up to this moment. Surely the religious ceremony had been a triumph and doubtless Dunstan would lose little time in telling him all about it, but for now the archbishop would have to sit and suffer the display of martial and diplomatic power. Whilst Dunstan had been writing sermons, choosing his finest vestments and deciding which psalms were to be sung, Alvar had been deep in negotiation with Edgar and the various kings and princes who ruled the surrounding kingdoms and islands. By means of persuasion and not a few open threats, a peace had been brokered and an agreement reached that saw them all gathered this day, ready to do homage to a king whose fleet blocked the estuary and whose fyrd had recently marched the length of the country, showing its might to all who lived in its path. Dunstan might yet feel worse before his nausea subsided.
Alerted by the cries of the young prince Æthelred, Alvar turned to look at the queen, who was sitting next to Bishop Athelwold. The boy squirmed on his mother’s knee, but she kept a tight grip and delivered an alluring smile. God, but the woman was beautiful, even after giving birth to fo
ur children, losing two and burying one. Her smile had altered slightly since the early days, showing her pretty teeth, but not reaching to her eyes, so that they remained wide, unaffected by ageing creases.
Alvar smiled back, but sobered in a heartbeat as he nodded his greeting to the Northumbrians, Earl Beorn, and Earl Wulf of Bamburgh, both grim-faced. It seemed to Alvar that Wulf had the harder task, keeping Beorn from killing the man who was standing between them, restrained on either side by their white-knuckled grip. Kenneth of Scotland, captor of Wulf’s son, stared ahead, not in defiance but with the certainty of a gambler who knew the pattern of luck at the gaming boards.
Of the other men waiting to do homage, there was no mistaking the identity of Maccus, Norse king of the Isles, and his brother, Gothfrith, the men who had been attacking the Welsh of Gwynedd. They were both wearing rows of gold arm bands, and round their necks their amulets glinted through their braided hair and beards. The brothers were standing like sailors, their legs apart, planted on the deck.
To their left, but not close enough to exchange snarled insults, stood the Welsh. Alvar greeted Iago of Gwynedd and his nephew Hywel ab Ieuaf, and spoke to them in Welsh, expressing the wish that they might spend enough time in England to allow them to dry out after all the Welsh rain.
Hywel stared at Alvar with black-brown eyes. He said, “I can tell you that this morning the sun was shining, west of Hawarden. I can also tell you that your Welsh is truly bad,” he said in perfect English. He took a step forward. “I would speak with you alone, after.”
Alvar nodded. He bowed to the last of the kings.
This was Domnall of Strathclyde, who looked up, gave a brief nod, and hung his head again. After the blood-feud between the two Scottish kingdoms, Strathclyde was his no more and nominally in the hands of his son. Alvar glanced at Beorn’s Scottish prisoner. Kenneth of Alba, who had taken such advantage of the quarrel, was appraising Domnall as if he were a wolf eyeing up its prey, and Domnall was standing, stooped, with the air of a man already defeated.
Alvar the Kingmaker Page 25