Alvar the Kingmaker

by Annie Whitehead

  Alvar nodded, but put a finger to his lips.

  Siferth called out to a friend. “Godric, what kept you? I thought you only went to piss out all that ale.”

  The other man said, “I did, but one of the horse-thegns told me that the silver mare was about to birth her foal, so I went to see.”

  “Well come back in, the glee-men have begun telling their riddles. The queen keeps guessing most of them and beating me, so I need help if I am to win. And she told me not to be away for too long, so we must hurry back. See, here is Ulf come to find you too.” Siferth threw an arm round each of the other men’s shoulders as they made their way back to the hall. He tried to reach round to his ale cup over Godric’s shoulder and the three of them zig-zagged across the courtyard until Siferth pulled them to a halt. “Uncle, is that you?”

  Alvar slid from the saddle. “It is, youngling. I am weary, but it does me good to see you again, even if…”

  Siferth seemed to be vaguely aware that certain niceties were required and he waved his arms about. “Godric, fetch a horse-thegn for the lord Alvar’s steed.” He stilled his flailing arms. “Uncle, what are you doing here? I thought you were with the witan at Calne.”

  Alvar held his hands out to touch Siferth’s shoulders, but the rough wool of the cloak snatched at his cuts, and he let them hang back by his sides. “I seek the lord Edward. Has he been here?”

  Siferth looked into his ale cup. He tipped it up, frowning at its emptiness. “Odd. I did not think I had drunk so much.” He hiccupped. “How have you lost the king? Have you missed him in the mist?” His drunkenness exaggerated the quality of his joke and he folded over, hands on his thighs, laughing in a way that was less a sound, more an undulation rippling up and down his body.

  Alvar took a step forward. “Siferth, is Edward here?”

  Siferth shook his head as if to swill away the ale. “Why would you think that the king is here? He would no more come to the queen’s house than…”

  A mounted figure moved away from the enclosure fence, out of the shadows and into the light of the brazier. “I would come if I thought my king-helm was loose on my head.”

  Siferth bowed low and his cup clattered onto the ground. “My lord King, I… That is to say, the queen…”

  Edward leaned from the saddle. “Stop gabbling. I will see her now. Bring her to me.”

  “My lord… I do not think that you should…”

  Alvar reached up to put a hand on Edward’s arm, and kept his eyes wide against the pain. He said, “My lord, I am glad to see that you are calmer than when you left Calne.” He lowered his arm and nursed his hand behind his back. “We know how upset you were to lose so many good men.”

  “Not you, though. Shame.” Edward spat on the ground by Alvar’s feet. “No, my lord, I am not calm. Here you see a man who has gone far beyond wrath and can look coldly through the red mist clouding the eye.”

  Alvar glanced at the hall, where the door was shut but unguarded. He scanned the yard. Godric, whom Siferth had dispatched to fetch a horse-thegn, was now on his way back from the stables with a groom. The guard at the gate looked on; he was leaning against the gatehouse wall, relaxed with one foot over the other, but his spear was in reach and his thumbs were tucked into his knife-belt, close enough to reach the handle in a hurry. Soft giggles betrayed a couple enjoying the privacy of the darkness, and the fire still glowed in the smithy. It was not a fyrd, but there were enough witnesses to make Edward think twice before he acted rashly. Alvar clicked his fingers and his own thegns, Brihtmær and Ingulf, walked over to stand beside the king’s stallion. Alvar turned to the groom. “Here, take my horse. You, Godric, is it? Come and help Siferth and the others to see to Lord Edward’s steed.”

  As Alvar walked away, Edward called out. “Lord Alvar, I do not need all these men around me. Why have you put them in a ring here?” His voice became a bark. “And whither do you go that makes you show your back to your king? Do not think to hinder me.”

  Alvar stepped back to them. He nodded at his own men, and to Ulf and Godric he said quietly, “Hold him.” He raised his voice. “My lord Edward, I am merely on my way to make sure that the welcome in the hall befits you, and to tell the queen that she must come to greet you.”

  Alvar smiled, bowed low, and walked to the hall door. He was breathing in shallow gasps. He must not run; the hounds only gave chase when the prey bolted and he must keep space between Edward and the queen. He groaned and held his breath when Edward shouted out anew.

  “You shits! I know what you are trying to do. Let me through or I will ride over you. I will see the queen, so move your arses or be knocked to the ground.”

  Godric said, “Is the Devil within him?”

  The horse whinnied and Ulf stumbled as they all tried to hold and soothe the nervous beast.

  “No,” said Siferth, “But he uses his fists when he is wroth.”

  “I will see the bitch. Now.”

  Alvar backed towards the hall and reached behind him to bang on the door.

  Siferth said, “My lord King, I know that it is the drink speaking through you. The queen is not a…”

  Edward lowered his face to Siferth’s and said, “I am not drunk and she is a whore. She stole my mother’s foot-hold in my father’s house and she wants my kingdom for her by-blow son.”

  Siferth said, “No, I will not let you speak so. She is a true and good woman and I would lay down my life for her.”

  “You might have to.”

  Alvar rolled his eyes and turned round as the hall door swung open. He said to the door-thegn, “Get your lady. And be swift.”

  Alfreda came to the doorway and smiled. She put a hand to her head and patted her headdress. Even in his urgency, he found time to notice how absurdly pleased she seemed to be to see him.

  “Lord Alvar, you are most welcome; we have pipers, harpers, riddlers and glee-men here, and more than enough ale. Your foster-son sees to it that my hall is always lively. He looks to my needs well.” She continued to smile at him, but drew the tip of her tongue across her lips while she waited for him to speak.

  Alvar stepped forward. The warmth of the hearth beyond was a few impossible steps away. But behind him, the shouting continued. He said, “My lady, the lord Edward…”

  “The king, my lord? I have not seen him since Yule. What makes you think…?” She looked past his shoulder. “Oh sweet holy Jesus.”

  Alvar turned again to look back at the yard. Edward’s sword arm, raised above his head, was a blur against the darkened sky. He leaned forward out of his saddle and brought his arm down. Behind him, the glow from the brazier lit his empty hand, but too late to show the lack of weapon and stay Siferth’s dagger. The blade slammed into Edward’s back.

  “Siferth. No!” Alvar ran.

  Edward sat back and reached round to feel under his shoulder-blade. He rubbed his fingertips together and looked at them. “Christ, you have killed me.”

  His horse reared and broke free from Godric’s grasp. Ulf jumped aside as the front hooves came down, and leaped up to try to reach the reins. Ingulf dived for the tail but missed and landed on the ground, and the stallion ran. The guard at the gate stepped forward, only to spread flat against the gateway as the beast gathered speed. Edward, with only one hand on the reins, struggled to keep his seat and was still within view when he slipped from the saddle. His right foot caught in the stirrup, he was unable to push himself clear, and as the panicked beast continued to run, it dragged Edward along behind.

  Godric and Ulf stood and gasped for breath, then ran off in pursuit of the horse and its injured rider. Ingulf and Brihtmær ran to attend to the queen, who stood in the doorway with little Æthelred by her side. Siferth did not move, but stood with the bloodied knife in his hand. He continued to stare at it even as Alvar uncurled his fingers and took it from him.

  “Uncle, I…” Siferth surrendered; he stumbled forward into Alvar’s arms and sobbed.

  Alvar let the knife drop to the gr
ound and held the boy. Once, years ago, Brock’s eldest son had broken a cart wheel. His world was over and yet he had clung to his uncle, unshakable in his belief that grown men can mend all. Alvar struggled to keep his thoughts in the present, so alike were the cries in this dark night.

  Ulf and Godric returned, their faces white in the moonlight. Godric opened his mouth, and the queen’s scream began before he had finished his words.

  “The king is dead.”

  The queen screamed again, little Æthelred wailed as he clutched her skirts, and Siferth slumped to the ground with his head in his hands.

  Ulf said, “We followed him over the bridge and up the hill and the horse would not stop but kept going and we did not think we could catch up to him and it was not until we reached the settlement on the other…”

  Alvar held his hand up to silence him. This was not a time for explanations, or even protracted thought. He must act. “Siferth, come here and kneel before me. You will swear hold-oath to me as your lord.” He reached behind him and clicked his fingers. Brihtmær pushed a gold cruciform brooch into his hand. “Swear,” Alvar said again, “On this holy thing…”

  Siferth stuttered the words of the hold-oath.

  Alvar lifted him, gave him the kiss and said, “Now you are my man. Do you hear me? My man.” To Godric and Ulf he said, “Show me.”

  He followed them as they led him away from the royal settlement, round the west hill, past a line of trees, black now against the purple sky, and through a cluster of small dwellings. Beyond the one-roomed houses they showed him a well. The king’s horse was standing nearby.

  Alvar peered into the well. “Oh, tell me you did not.”

  They looked down at the ground. Ulf said, “My lord, we were frightened. We did not know what to do. We thought it best if folk could not see the bod… The king’s…”

  Alvar shifted his weight from one foot to the other; the grass was springy beneath him and he longed only to lie down on it. “Wareham is near here, I think. Fetch a monk from there. Have him bury the body.”

  “Uncle?”

  He looked up. Siferth had followed them, like the runt seeking the warmth of the rest of the litter.

  “I could not go into the hall, for I have lost the right to sit by the hearth. I will have to go far away. If I am even allowed to live…”

  Alvar walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, forbearing to wince. “You know that I will do what I can. But to take the life of a king…”

  “He would have done harm to the queen. I could not let him. I had to stop him.”

  “The queen.” Alvar ran back to Alfreda’s manor. “Brihtmær, find my horse and one for Siferth, too. We must get away; the queen must not be washed with Edward’s blood.”

  Alfreda watched them ride out. Why would he leave her? Was he not her protector? Three years she’d been a widow, flirting with silly boys just to keep her skills honed, and tonight he had knocked on her door. He had come for her; for one joyous moment she had thought her wait was over. But now the king was dead, killed in her yard, and Alvar was gone. There would be no salvation. She stared out at the brazier. The flames licked and crackled, agitated by an evening breeze blowing across the courtyard, and illuminated the bloodstain on the ground. Edward’s blood. The fire stirred memories of a burning building, and a chance of a new beginning. So many years had passed since then, most of them good ones. But it had all come at a heavy cost, for she had lost three of her four children. Two cruelly kept from her, one taken by God, his little body burning with fever one moment, cold and dead the next. Her son was still convulsing with sobs beside her, and his shuddering body radiated warmth. She clutched him tightly. “Ssh, there, there, it will be all right.” The king was dead, and there would be salvation. Alfreda put her free hand up to tidy her veil, looked down at her last remaining son, the atheling Æthelred, and repeated her words. “It will be all right.”

  Calne

  In the pallid morning light, tree-wrights were chopping fallen beams and boards, and dragging the smaller pieces to bonfires. Wounded men hobbled around outside the king’s hall and helped where they could. Many more, still torpid with disbelief, remained seated on rescued stools and chairs, and gazed at the wreckage.

  Alvar wrinkled his nose at the smoke and put a hand up to bat away the flying embers. He left a listless Siferth in the makeshift infirmary. Outside the lodge for the clergy, he waylaid a monk. “Tell the archbishop that I would speak with him.”

  The monk went inside and Dunstan appeared, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. The smile of greeting fell from his face. “The king is not with you?”

  Alvar spoke in a voice made gruff by smoke and fatigue. “Lord Archbishop, I would speak with you right away. One to one.”

  Dunstan indicated the way with a sweep of his arm. They went inside and past the clergy who were sitting at their breakfast tables. Some ate with enthusiasm; others, faces dirty, looked too shocked to eat well. Dunstan knew he must speak to them soon; one, in particular, had remained mute and hungry since the collapse, and he was no use to God or the injured in that weakened state.

  In a private chamber at the rear of the building, Dunstan offered Alvar a cushioned chair and the earl fell into it. He mentioned how warm the room was, commented on the smell of incense and he blinked slowly, as if the pungent air were pushing heavily on his eyelids. Dunstan’s bed was piled with soft furs and gold embroidered covers, pillows and cushions, and Lord Alvar looked, covetously, it seemed to Dunstan, at the feather-soft haven. As always when he travelled, Dunstan had brought with him many wooden caskets decorated with gold. On the table next to Alvar lay a particularly beautiful reliquary and the earl leaned his head on it.

  Dunstan tutted, but he shrugged and said, “It will not be the most ungodly thing you have ever done.” He cleared his throat. “Well? Why have you not brought the king back with you?”

  Alvar sat forward. “My lord Archbishop, I have ridden hard miles from Corfe, and in all that time have not found the words to tell you in a kinder way than this: your king is dead.”

  Dunstan lost all control of his head. He stopped blinking and his mouth gaped open. His head was shaking; his ears were not working properly.

  “No, my lord, it is not a lie. I only wish it were.”

  Dunstan regained control of his faculties. He sat down and said, “I will call for food and drink and then you must tell me all.”

  He listened, even now not really able to believe, as Alvar told him a tale that was as tragic as it was shocking. When he had dispatched Alvar and his men to bring Edward back, his only concern was that Edward might dirty his own name by frightening or, and it was only a possibility, assaulting the king’s widow. How had it come to pass that Edward was dead, killed at the hand of thegns who loved the queen so much that they would kill and die for her? Was his assessment of Alfreda proved wrong, or right, by this turn of events? He must conclude this meeting rapidly, for he had much to say to God in the privacy of the chapel. He crossed himself, murmured a prayer and said, “What must be done?”

  Alvar moved his head from side to side and raised his shoulders as if to ease the ache there and in his neck. “A king has been murdered, and the killing calls for the payment of wergild and a hanging. The king’s kin should hunt down the killers.”

  “But if he has no full-grown kin…” If he had no adult kin then the responsibility would fall to someone who acted for the royal family. But the royal family was divided. Who would act for Edward’s side? Brandon? There was no-one, in truth, who could stand against Alvar.

  Alvar held up a hand. “The thegn, Siferth, who wielded the blade, is dear to me.”

  Dunstan slumped in his chair, accepting the inevitable. Alvar would fight on behalf of Alfreda and her thegn, and none could stop him.

  “You should know that I am his lord.”

  Dunstan demurred. “I was given to understand that he is Alfreda’s thegn.”

  “I made him swear to me. He is my th
egn now, and I am bound to protect him.”

  Dunstan opened his mouth and shut it again. It was one thing to fight on Siferth’s behalf, but with the ties of lordship came shared responsibility. Alvar had made himself vulnerable, and laid himself open to accusations of collusion in a murder. Why would he make such a sacrifice? He must truly love this thegn, to act so selflessly. Reluctantly, Dunstan acknowledged that the action went deeper than mere love. By moving to make Siferth his thegn, he had negated the need to arrest him. With a legitimate reason not to draw his sword, he was guaranteeing a peace which would only be broken should someone choose to accuse Alvar directly of murder. His reputation might suffer, but the kingdom would be mended. Alvar was putting duty before all personal considerations and, belatedly, it occurred to Dunstan that it was this tendency that had helped to make Alvar so indispensable to Edgar.

  He sat back and, though his overriding emotion was sadness, he gave in to the urge for a small chuckle. “Once, I thought you to be no more than a brute with a sword. But now…” He shook his head with only a tiny range of motion as he finished the thought. Edgar had brought Alvar to court because he wished to use his loyalty and his military skills and yet now, the soldier Dunstan had dismissed as unimaginative had found a way to solve this monumental crisis by deliberately, and publicly, sheathing his sword. Loyal yes, but clever too, and Dunstan, his lifelong enemy, found that he welcomed the opportunity to speak to the man as one statesman to another, a part which Dunstan had hitherto been so fond to play as a solo role.

  A serving-boy brought a flask of wine. Dunstan offered some to Alvar, who shook his head. “You will not have a drink?” Dunstan took a sip from a gold cup. “What of the athelings?”