Alvar the Kingmaker (10 page)

Alvar nudged him. “Why do you not go and find your lovely wife?”

“No, I will sleep here with my men. She will wish to be on her own, if she is not with ch…” Helmstan’s head went back and he sank a little in his chair. A snort came from the back of his throat and his hand slipped from the table.

So, that was the reason for the lady’s sad demeanour. She craved a child. Alvar laid a hand on his sleeping friend’s arm, squeezing it gently before patting and releasing it.

The servants began to tidy away the empty trestle tables and Alvar looked around to see if there was a spare length of bench along the walls where he could lie down. A small dog, too puny to be used for hunting, sniffed round the far side of the table for scraps. Alvar held out a lamb bone and the animal came to him and licked it.

“Well, hound, is that good?” He scratched behind its ears as he mused that Helmstan would still be better sleeping with his fair-looking wife than with his men. Comradeship, forged while men spent the day hunting and enjoyed nights at the mead-bench, formed the bonds that held communities together. A lord gained much respect by staying with his men; status within the group was everything, and worth dying for. Alvar had given up a lot in service to the king and in his role as a warrior, but he wondered if he would forgo the opportunity to share a bed with such a beguiling woman. He sighed. The dog looked up, its tongue hanging from the side of its mouth. Alvar bent nearer to its ear and whispered. “And she is fair-looking, you know.” Helmstan had spoken the truth in calling her beautiful.

Standing in a state of agitation with her clothing in disarray, she had presented a vision of a woman utterly devoid of the preening habits of the ladies at court, and it was refreshing to see. She obviously eschewed such niceties when she was on her own manor, and was caught out looking vulnerable only because she knew that by going bare-headed she was flouting convention. Unlike many of the women of his acquaintance, she was embarrassed at the sight of him and he, likewise, was mortified to be seen naked. Such a thing would not normally have bothered him, any more than it worried his female companions, yet he had been uncomfortable to be found thus in Káta’s presence. So much so that he made a complete goose of himself with his stupid remark about the flowers. Since when was he so tongue-tied around women? Somehow it mattered so terribly much that Helmstan’s wife should think well of him.

The dog licked his outstretched fingers. Alvar recalled how a jagged scar traced a diagonal line across the back of Káta’s right hand, from the heel of her thumb to the joint of her little finger. It had been visible while she fought with her veil, but as soon as she could, she had pulled her sleeve over it and lowered her arm by her side. It was so swiftly done that he was left in no doubt that she had done it many times before, a habit born of self-consciousness. He had wondered briefly how she had come to bear such a mark, but he would no more ask her, or indicate that he had noticed by asking Helmstan, than he would dream of taunting Dunstan about his stammer.

Alvar stretched and yawned. No man had held a sword to his back, or forced him to go with Edgar and, now that he knew it was the right thing to do, he had no reason to feel discontent, beyond an itch to get back to what he knew best and put his sword and spear to good use. But there was something… He knew his purpose, he knew his duty, but somehow he had lifted the cup of promise and found it to be empty. Where was the reward; what was it that he was fighting for? There was nothing to soothe his soul, to give him personal succour, beyond serving the king. And as a soldier, he’d always thought that would be sufficient. Around the hall even the remaining whispered conversations stalled as men drifted into slumber. He looked at Helmstan, snoring gently in his chair, felt his own arms and legs growing heavy, and a creeping desire to sink into the deepest slumber. Helmstan, so loyal to the men who served him, so bound up in his Mercian cause, yet with a welcoming hearth and a lovely woman, had less, but seemed to deserve and appreciate it more. Alvar recalled Helmstan’s comment that Káta would not fit in at court, and now he had seen for himself that from here, London swirled like an adder’s nest, while this hall brought to mind the stillness of a mill pond.

The dawn light spread round the edges of the shutters. Alvar side-stepped through the tumble of sleeping bodies and sniffed his way to the latrine. In the enclosure, the insistent cockerel agitated the hungry hounds with its breakfast call. Stiff from having dozed all night in the chair, Alvar shivered in the dewy dampness and lengthened his pace along the path which led away from the house. At the edge of the woods he stopped and looked about to decide the more interesting route.

The undergrowth crackled and the leaves shushed and hushed. Helmstan’s wife stepped from between the trees, pulling small twigs from her gown, and put a hand up to smooth her veil. She straightened up, saw him, looked left and right and turned towards the field.

In two steps he was level with her. “Lady Káta?”

She stopped, but did not look up. “My lord, I beg you to forget that you have seen me here this morning. I have no right to ask this of you, but…”

Alvar looked behind him to the forest and both ways down the lane. “Lady, I have seen naught…”

She lifted her head. Her eyes were full of tears one blink from release. She seemed not to have heard him, for her confession tumbled out anyway. “I have left gifts this morning. In the woods, by the ash tree.”

Alvar let out his held breath. “Is that all? Many folk worship trees, my lady. The Church looks the other way, for the old ways die hard. But I will not speak of it, if that is your wish.” He rubbed his hand across his chin and laughed. “What a sorry sight we make, you about the Devil’s work and me looking like I have come fresh from a night in hell.”

She raised her chin and gave a little shake of the head. “I must go home.” She reached round to lift her skirts and walked off.

He caught up with ease and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I am sorry if you thought I was teasing.”

“Please, my lord, do not.” She was standing stiffly, looking at her shoulder.

He looked down and his hand snapped away as if from a hot cauldron. His apology was lost under the noise of a cry from further down the path.

“Lady Káta, Lady Káta!”

She turned and put her hand up to her brow. “It is Wulfric, son of Brunstan. They farm an oxgang of land beyond the church.”

The boy juddered to a halt in front of them and bent to rest his hands on his knees until his breath came freely. “Lady, you must come. My father is wounded.”

Alvar looked back towards the manor. “I will fetch my horse.”

“No, the way is swifter by foot, over the stile.” She set off at a brisk pace, turning to say to Wulfric, “Go to the hall and ask Leofsige for some bread and morning-meat,” before her skip progressed to a run.

Alvar trotted alongside her, musing that he would not have paused to think about the youngling’s empty belly; his initial reaction was merely to pat his belt to make sure his hand-saex was hanging there. Her breathing grew less rhythmic, but she did not slow her pace until they came to Brunstan’s dwelling, so that although the sun had some distance yet to rise, her already prettily pink cheeks glowed red. He smiled at her and stepped back to allow her to enter the dwelling.

The house had one room, with a central hearth and a smoke hole above it in the roof. A rush-light was guttering and the fire was almost out. Alvar reached to close the door but Káta shook her head. “Leave it; I need the light.”

On a cot at the far end of the room, Brunstan was lying with his left leg out straight. Blood was seeping through the tunic which had been wrapped round the wound. Káta knelt beside him and peeled back the makeshift bandage. With half-returned breath she said, “What happened?”

“One of my ewes got snared in thorns in a ditch on the far side of Lyfing’s field, my lady. I thought I had her, but I fell, twisted withershins, and found myself at the bottom of the ditch with what felt like a bough stuck in my leg. It was really no more than a twig and Wulfric helped me pull it out but…” He winced as she pulled off the bloodstained tunic. “How does it look?”

She patted his good leg. “Not as bad as it feels. I will wash it for you now, then I will send Wulfric back with some vervain to put on it to stop it from festering and he can brew up a wort-drink for you; it will taste bitter but you must drink it all. Afterwards, drink watered ale if you are thirsty.”

Alvar stayed by the door, redundant, as she bathed and dressed the wound, using her veil as a bandage. With her sleeves hitched up, her scar showed white on her warm hand. Her fingers moved with speed and yet the wounded man did not flinch at her touch. She stood up and tidied Brunstan’s few possessions. She handed the bucket to Alvar.

“You can fill it up again from the stream outside.”

Alvar chuckled softly, amused by her ability to dispense with all notion of rank as she assigned him his task. He ducked his head and stepped from the dwelling, dropping to one knee at the edge of the brook to scoop a mouthful of water for himself. He walked back in with the full bucket and placed it on the floor by the hearth, where Brunstan’s meagre collection of pans and utensils lay.

Káta was on her feet. She said, “I will send food back with Wulfric, but before he leaves the hall I will show him how to shred and blend the herbs. Burgred will help him with the flock until you are on your feet again.”

Out in the sunshine again, Alvar said, “In there, when you handed me the pail, it was as though you forgot that I am an earl.”

She put her hands up to her face. “My lord, I am… How can you forgive me?”

“I liked it.”

She lowered her scarred hand, but the other remained on her head, reaching for her veil. “I am sorry my lord, what did you say?” She twisted round to look behind.

Wondering whether to repeat his comment, he took a moment to stare at her uncovered head. It was like panning for gold as with each turn of her head the sun showed new lines of honeyed strands in her hair. “You left your veil on the man’s leg. Do not worry,” he said. Still in awe of a lady who did not slavishly adhere to the strict fashion codes at court, he sought once more to compliment her. “The ladies at the king’s houses never throw off their headdresses.”

To his surprise, she was not soothed. “No, I can believe that they do not. You must forgive our ways.”

He retreated. “All I meant was that you will be cooler without it. Will you wander a while?”

Her answer was merely deferential. “If that is what my lord would like, although you might find me a little dull.” She waved at the path beyond the bridge. “This road will bring us back to Ashleigh.”

The track was busy with folk about their daily business. Káta greeted them all by name; the milkmaids on their way to churn the milk at the dairy, herdsmen moving their beasts along the tracks into different fields, Grim, whose smithy they passed, and Seaxferth the peddler.

“Seaxferth, is your wain still with the wheelwright? You must chide him, for it is too far for you to bring your wares from Chester without it.”

Alvar wrinkled his nose as they walked past the tanning pit, but Káta smiled and nodded at the tanner.

“How goes your little one? Is she on her feet yet?”

Alvar listened to the brief conversation and his regard grew for this lady who echoed his own inclinations, that duty was paramount. When they moved on, he said, “You look after your folk well.”

As she walked, she held out her hand and brushed her fingers through the hedgerow, and now and then she kept hold of a leaf and pulled it free as she went past. She said, “How can there be any other way? I must be as the dock leaf to their nettle stings; they look to me as well as to Helmstan to watch over them.”

“It is true,” he said. “And the Greybeard of Chester speaks highly of your husband. You are truly blessed. It is a bare life which asks for little.”

The smile fell from her face and she slowed down. “I… I had not thought of it like that.”

He frowned. He had intended to flatter, but she had not appreciated his comment. He needed to explain his meaning, that he was envious of her simple life when his was of a sudden so vexatiously complicated. He waited for her to resume walking and then he made another attempt. “Once, I was but a soldier, and then lately became lord of my father’s lands. But this year has taken me away from my brother and seen me swear to one king over another. Now I have to sit at every witenagemot and tell men what I think, for they say it matters.”

She sniffed. “You live a much higher life than mine, my lord.” She strode off ahead.

He cursed under his breath. All he wanted was to convey his admiration that she worked hard and was blessed in return with a blissful, peaceful life, whereas he had yet to feel deserving of the honours thrust upon him, so that his itinerant lifestyle remained a wearisome necessity. But, tongue-tied and blustering, he was succeeding only in convincing her of his arrogance.

He came alongside her once more. He knew he was falling some way short of eloquence, but he ploughed on. “You know but little of me…”

She interrupted. “You must have many houses?”

A piece of grit blew into his eye and he blinked and stopped to wipe it. “I do. But I am not oft-times at home, for I have to go to hundred-moots and am needed at all of Edgar’s meetings, wherever they might be.” This time, he was quicker to realise that whilst he was comparing his life unfavourably with her settled existence, he might still be mistaken for a braggart, so he followed it with a refutation. “But I am sworn to the king and must ride where he goes, whether or not I would rather bide at home.”