Alvar the Kingmaker

by Annie Whitehead

  “You are all like wolves, bent on tearing one another’s throats.”

  “No more.”

  “Truthfully?”

  “Yes.”

  The other witan members filed into the chamber and he grinned and sat up straight. Two weeks in bed had also restored to him something that he thought had fallen away with the timbers at Calne. A familiar excitement jumped in his belly.

  The queen said, “I would have a little more from you than that before I sleep unworried in my bed.”

  Alvar said, “All land disputes will be settled, but only for those who have already come forward. No new cases will be heard. I have agreed that I will put up with Oswald as long as he shows me all his gifts of land before he grants them.” The archbishop of York hobbled by and they exchanged a nod. “I have even said that I will do my best not to be unkind to Brandon, but it is not easy.” Alvar grinned. “Sometimes I itch even now to set fire to his breeches to see if the man can leap without being told to.”

  Brandon sat down and looked at his lap. “My lord of Mercia wishes to play with fire, because he knows he is on his way to hell and needs to get used to the heat.”

  Alvar chuckled and Brandon raised his head, surprised at the reaction. He looked bemused, like a failed hunter who had finally and unexpectedly made a kill.

  Dunstan settled himself into his chair. “I know that I speak for all here when I say that we are gladdened to see an end to the fighting. We c-can all look forward to the days of another strong kingship such as Edgar’s, he who ruled over a peaceful land, and died in his bed and not with a sword in his hand.”

  Æthelred had perched himself on the king-stool, where his legs dangled, too short to reach the floor.

  Alvar thought back to the days of the boy’s father. At the age of ten, Edgar’s character was already formed. Where he had been a well-risen loaf, Æthelred was but the lump of soft dough. God grant them the years needed to guide and shape him. The thought wearied him that his work was still not done, his duty to the royal house not yet fulfilled.

  The archbishop of Canterbury twirled his cup round in his hands. “There is one thing I would say to you though, my lord Alvar. You have worked hard to keep the blood off the queen’s hands and away from our young king. But what of the danger of your own name being besmeared? I know it was a risk that you were willing to take but…”

  Bishop Athelwold sat forward. “My lord Archbishop, you do not believe that the lord of Mercia was, in any way, guilty of…”

  Dunstan set down his cup. “No, I do not. As I told the earl, I have in these last weeks begun to see a little of what Edgar saw, that behind the foul words and the loud roar, there is a sharp-witted wisdom and a willing ability when things need to be done.”

  “My lord, you must stop. My cheeks are reddening.”

  The queen raised her eyebrows. The pursed lips had released into a smile. “They look as bold as ever to me, my lord.”

  Alvar grinned. “Well, my lady, if I must have only one sin, then let it be pride.”

  Dunstan coughed and said, “Be all that as it may, I ask again how the lord Alvar will banish any suspicions that he was behind the king’s death all along. For if he were now to make an unwise match…”

  The queen sat forward as if his answer was important to her. Did she think…?

  Alvar sat forward too and rubbed his hands together. “My lord Archbishop, I am flattered beyond reckoning by your praise, but you need not worry about any fingers pointing at me. I will not be here. Iago of Gwynedd wishes to steal back the lands of Hywel ab Ieuaf, and Hywel has asked for my help once more.” He grinned at the archbishop.

  Dunstan rolled his eyes heavenward. “I was too swift with my kind words. You still like nothing more than to ride off with your sword in your hand.”

  A low chuckle echoed around the room. Only Alfreda sat like Lot’s wife, her expression frozen into one that suggested the final thwarting of her plans.

  Gwynedd, North Wales

  The Mercian army came through the pass of Bwlch Mawr, and Alvar and Wulfgar dismounted. Alvar let his horse find what grazing it could and he scrambled down the hillside by the waterfall that tumbled down Gyrn Goch Mountain to the sea. He sat down with his legs stretched out in front of him and leaned back on his elbows. Below him, the monastery at Clynnog Fawr nestled on a small stretch of flat land between the hills and the sea. A pretty little pebble beach gave way to bright, blue water, and away to the northeast lay the island that the Welsh called Ynys Môn. He closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face.

  Wulfgar scrambled down the slope to crouch beside his lord. “Hywel’s men are on their way back from Aber, my lord. I saw them on the road.”

  “Good. We need do naught before he gets here. The hare we caught; is it on the fire yet?”

  “I told them to fetch it to you when it is done. So, now, tell me why I am on my arse on a Welsh hillside, soon to be upsetting some old Welsh monks?”

  Alvar brushed his hair from his eyes. He must ask Káta to cut it for him when he returned home. “You must ask Hywel about that one. I have no answer.”

  Wulfgar frowned. “What is wrong, my lord?”

  Alvar sighed. “Iago has gathered men to him from Dublin, ready to sail to help him. That is why we made ourselves seen at Aberdaron, to frighten them off by waving at them from across the water and showing them that Hywel is not alone.” He glanced at Wulfgar’s knotted brow and smiled. “But I do not know whether I want to be a part of what happens next. The monastery down there has strong ties with the House of Gwynedd. To harry this place would be as big a blow to Iago as the harrying of York or Canterbury would have been to Edgar. And I am in danger of becoming the thing that men like Oswald hated me for.” He laughed. “I can see you have no pity for the Welsh though.”

  “Not after they cursed me with ringworm, warts and wens.” Wulfgar eased from his squat to sit down. He rubbed his knees. “Do you think we have grown too old for this?”

  Alvar put all his weight on one elbow as he scratched his chin. “Truth be told, I knew I was, even before I came. But I am lord of Mercia, so it behoves me to oversee any fighting that goes on anywhere near the border. I thought I had enough fighting years left in me,” he sat up and shook his arms, “But my bones have begun to tell me otherwise.” Come, let us go and find Hywel and shake the ache from our arses.”

  “Mildrith told me that I would have more than a sore arse if I did not come home whole, and she did not understand why I laughed.”

  “I was told something like that.” Alvar put his hand up to his hair again to push it out of his eyes. “I never gave it much thought before. For years, whenever you spoke of Mildrith, or any other man spoke of his wife, I had naught to say back. But now…”

  “What do you mean?”

  Alvar said, “It is a new feeling and it makes me smile. After all these years, I have someone to go home to.”

  He ran down the hill to greet Hywel. “It is a wondrous sight, this land of yours, Welshman.”

  Hywel nodded. “Why do you think we are always fighting over it?”

  Alvar laughed. “All that bloodshed over a lovely view? I think not. You Welsh make our English fights look like children’s play. I am glad I am not wearing your uncle’s shoes this day.”

  “My uncle Iago thought he was safe from me. He believed that when Edgar swore at Chester to be a friend to Gwynedd, it meant that every English king thereafter would uphold that oath. His unlawful hold on these lands died with Edgar.”

  “Many things died with Edgar.”

  “I do not think that the ships from Dublin will unload now that they know you are here. You and I have fought well together. I hope that I can ask for your help another time.”

  Alvar looked out through his long fringe, first to the sea in front of him, then to the mountains behind him and then to the ground, where the road ended underneath his feet. “Ha! Do you hear him, Wulfgar? Youngling, I am too old for this. And I am no murderer of monk
s. It is bad enough that many at home already think it of me. So I will stay while you see off the sailors from Dublin and then I will go home. Besides, you will not need my help again.”

  Cheshire

  “I told him that if I sought to bind him to me with my bodily strength, then it was but a forlorn hope. This kingdom will always have a stronger grip on his heart. Even so, a fyrd should be home before the first winter shower falls.”

  From the top of Elfshill Káta looked at the Welsh hills in the distance, where the snow lay in the gullies and made the rocks beside them seem darker and sharper. The air was clear and there were no clouds in the sky. She put out a hand. “They look so near that I feel that I could reach them with my fingers.”

  Gytha shouted up from below. “Lady, does he come?”

  Káta shook her head and made her way back down to the halfway point.

  Gytha leaned against a tree and panted. “He might bide in Wales until the thaw. He might be with Thegn Aswy in Shrewsbury. You should not worry yet.”

  Káta blew on her fingers. “Come, we must see if the road to Chester is hard enough. I need to speak with the bone-carver before Siferth’s wedding. I want him to make a bride-gift for Eadyth. Should we buy wine as well as mead for the wedding, or the Welsh-ale, do you think? Oh, do not let me forget that I said I would send Wulfric some garlic. And old Leofwaru needs some more hemlock, for she says she cannot sleep. Shellfish… Do you think shellfish would do to go with the bride-ale?”

  Gytha laid a hand on her arm. “Lady, he will come. You must not worry.”

  Káta turned a full circle on the path and sighed. “I know that in life we must take all, the thread and the thrum, but sometimes I wonder if it was real. Now he is mine and I can be his, yet never has he felt so far away.”

  Chapter Twenty AD979

  Kingston

  The archbishop of Canterbury strolled past with a beatific expression on his face. He said, “Folk have spoken to me today of yet more wondrous things.”

  Alvar smiled at Dunstan’s conspiratorial nod. He whispered to Káta, “Do you hear how he speaks to me as if we were childhood friends?” Dunstan, erstwhile enemy, now embraced Alvar as a member of a government which had been validated by miracles associated with Edward’s shrine. He had been pleased with Alvar’s idea to move Edward’s remains a year after his death, reburying the murdered king with all due ceremony. Sightings of saintly apparitions and stories of miraculous healing suggested celestial approval for the new reign. Raising his voice to answer the archbishop, Alvar said, “I heard many such tales along the road to the reburial at Shaftesbury, my lord. The tales will only grow in the telling.”

  “It is the hand of God which drives the folk to this shrine, His wonders to witness.” Dunstan smiled again and lifted his nose. “Ah, spitted hog. I find that it is hungry work, overseeing a king-making. I will t-take my leave, my lord.” He glided off towards the dais, where a gold embroidered tablecloth was fluttering in the breeze.

  “He stands upright for an old man,” Káta said.

  “He has lost none of his stern ways though, as those folk over there are about to find out.” Alvar pointed at the estate workers whose tools and carts were littering the way and impeding progress.

  Kingston was a royal manor expanded once more, as new buildings sprang up around the hall and next to the chapel of St Mary. Many remained unfinished, so that even after the new king’s crowning that morning, builders were still labouring with their T-blade axes to dress the new timbers. Joiners were turning alder-wood bowls on their pole-lathes even as the hogs roasted on the spits. Servants rushed to lay the trestle tables and dragged yet more chairs from the hall, while the builders yelled at them.

  “Watch out for that spade.”

  “Look out yourself; this food is for the king. And he will not want to eat it to the din of your hammering.”

  “A new king brings a new household, needs new bowers. Where would you be without us? Throw me a loaf, you lovely thing… Oh, beg forgiveness your Holiness.”

  They all fell to their knees as Dunstan walked by. He paused briefly to cast a withering gaze at the detritus.

  Káta laughed and walked with Alvar towards the tables. “What are these wondrous things of which Dunstan spoke?”

  “Oh, folk healed from sickness, walking again after years of being bed-bound…”

  It was the usual list of miracles associated with hallowed burial places, and Alvar tested her to see if she was listening. “Leaving gifts for trees, bathing in a well…”

  She tapped his arm. “Do not tease me. So the folk of Wessex are as silly as I once was. Now that Edward is reburied, the tales will find a home, as you say. I wish I had been there with you.”

  Alvar guided her to the shelter of an oak tree. He placed his hands on her elbows and said, “I could not have found time for you, my love. I rode at the head of the fyrd; I oversaw the burial and was busy all the day.”

  A Wiltshire thegn wandered by. “Good day to you, my lord Alvar. The sun shines for our new king.”

  “Yes, it does. Good day to you, Goding.”

  Káta wriggled from his grip. “You are mine, but I do not have you.”

  “What? I am sorry, I did not hear…”

  She clamped her teeth onto the corner of her bottom lip and looked down at her feet.

  He said, “You spoke in a whisper…” And it brought echoes from the past, of a young wife, newly wed and tongue-tied. But this was not that woman. She wore a gown of blue which matched the colour of her eyes. Her fur-trimmed sleeveless coat was fastened, against the mode, with the Celtic-copper brooch that he had given her. Not weak, recycled Roman metal mixture, but only the best for his woman. “How fair you look; a truly great lady.” He held out his arms.

  She walked into his embrace and he kissed the top of her head. He said, “My love, forgive me. You have me now. Edward is buried, this time with all care owed to him, Æthelred is made king this morning, and what a lovely morning it is.”

  The clear spring sunshine was warm but in the shade, a breeze blew reminders of the winter and Alvar was glad of his cloak. He looked down at Káta and dropped an arm around her shoulders. “You are shaking. Is it merely from the cold? You must know that you have naught to fear?”

  She lifted her chin. “Do not worry about me. I will sit with Wulfgar’s Mildrith while you are about your business.” She squeezed his hand.

  He gazed into her eyes. “Lady, I am ever filled with wonder, not only at your loveliness but at your strength.” He lifted her fingers to his lips and held them there as she began to walk away, so that her arm was outstretched before he released her. He called after her.

  “Have I not truly learned now how to woo a lady?”

  She did not turn, but put out a hand behind her, waving it to and fro.

  “Is that all? You think I have come so far and no more?”

  This time she turned and smiled. She hailed Mildrith, linked arms with her, and they walked away. He tucked his thumbs into his belt and whistled as he made his way to the row of seats nearest the dais.

  The tables for the nobles were laid with linen tablecloths held down only by the weight of the gold plates and cups. The ground was strewn with fresh cut flowers, banners danced in the breeze, and under the shade of an ash tree the harper plucked his strings while the pipers blew and children ran about at their feet.

  Alvar turned to greet Wulfgar as he fell into step beside him. “Is it not a great day?”

  A giggling child ran from behind the tree and Wulfgar hop-skipped to avoid her. “It will be for you, my lord. Other men might not like it.”

  “What, do you think Lord Brandon will not wish me well?”

  Wulfgar made a play of scratching his chin. “Hmm, let me think…”

  Alvar knew the answer. He was about to be called forth, recognised as Æthelred’s foremost advisor, and handed control of a long-disputed area in Buckinghamshire. If he were Brandon, he would be peeved, to say the least.
He said, “I should not wallow in it, for pride is a sin. But to have a real, legal hold now over Buckinghamshire… Good God, man, you are louder than those beams they are hammering. What are you laughing at?”

  “I cannot believe it; can you think of nothing else that makes this day so sweet? Is that not your lady, come to watch you being named most doughty earl of Æthelred’s kingship? She must think a lot of you to ride all this way. I have never seen her in Wessex before.”

  “Christ. I had not thought.” On the very day he had met her, so many years ago, he had been struck by her lack of affectation, her reluctance to preen like the ladies of the court. Alvar stood still. Wasn’t that why he had always loved her? She had stayed away and she had remained free of the taint of politics, she had never learned to hate, or to dissemble. She had changed, yes, but only to become a stronger version of herself, capable, stoic, compassionate, sensible. Selfless.

  Wulfgar turned round and walked back three paces. “My lord, you are grinning as though your wits have flown away.”

  “She has come to be with me.” And for no other reason.

  Wulfgar laid a hand on his arm. “Yes, lord, she is your lady. Come now; stir yourself. Right now you look less like a leading earl than an addle-brained child.”

  They took their seats before the dais and Alvar said, “And the king looks as if the Devil himself is about to ride in.”

  The young king was seated on the king-stool. He was still dressed in his full-length coronation robe. His hand was at his temple, and he twisted a tiny piece of hair round and round his fingers. His mother the queen sat beside him, wearing a gown of deep red silk. Today her hair was contained within its headdress and her smile was serene. The royal couple was flanked by the two archbishops. One smiled, one did not.

  A thegn stood behind King Æthelred and beckoned Alvar to come forward. Wulfgar touched him on the back and Alvar stood up, stepped nearer the dais and sank down on one knee, head bowed.