Alvar the Kingmaker (11 page)

“From what you say, your life is a world away from mine and Helmstan’s.”

He did not know the reason, but it was important that this married woman knew that he lived alone. “Oh, yes, for I do not have a woman at home.”

“No, I can see that there would be no room in your wandering life for a wife,” she said.

“In truth I think my household might be the better for a woman’s ways, for today I have seen how well you…” His tongue had finally untied itself, but she had gone on ahead.

He followed her onto a tree-lined track. The path was rutted, churned in wetter weather by cart wheels and now baked hard by the summer sunshine. As he caught up to her, she stepped on a raised edge of mud and her foot slipped into the track carved out by the wheels. Alvar moved forward and grasped her elbow, supporting her weight while she found a firmer footing. This time she did not shrug him off, but smiled her thanks. She led the way again and he watched her as she walked, looking at the golden braid of hair swinging softly with each step. Oh yes, his household would certainly be better for the ways of a woman such as this one.

In the yard his retainers, apparently regretting the previous night’s ale consumption, shielded their eyes from the daylight as they stumbled through their packing routine. Káta’s cook moved among them with a tray of herby omelettes. One thegn reached out and held the omelette hovering at his lips, before he replaced it and ran to the latrine.

Káta asked the cook if the remains of the food from the previous night had been distributed.

“Yes, my lady, and I gave six eggs to young Wulfric. How goes Brunstan?”

“He will live. The wound was not too deep and it is clean, so it will heal swiftly enough.” She jerked her head in the direction of the men. “It looks as though you will have fewer mouths to feed today.”

Alvar stood by the tether-post and patted one of the horses there. He examined its bridle, making a show of inspecting the leather. She had forgotten him.

“Gytha, is the hall clean?”

“Yes my lady. You were gone a long time; what did you think of…”

He could not make out the rest of the woman’s question and he scowled at the thegn who had dropped his saddle at that precise moment. But he got the gist of the question when the last part of the answer rang out clear across the yard.

“Is a rich man of the king’s house and we are but dull folk in his eyes. Come, we must see if the hens have laid this morning. Is there rennet for the cheese? When I used boiled nettle it did not curdle the milk enough.”

Alvar raised his head and stared out at the hills.

“My lord?  Is it a good dream that you see?” The stable-boy who had spoken was holding Alvar’s saddled horse for him.

“No, it was not. But I think it was one that I needed to see.” Alvar took the reins and turned at a shout from the other side of the hall.

A runner pushed through the clusters of men. “Lord Alvar! Where is the lord Alvar?”

“Here.”

The man stopped and panted. “My lord, I come with tidings. We sought you first at Chester. We had hoped to find you here; otherwise we were at a loss to know where to go…”

“Spit it out, then.”

“My lord, the archbishop of Canterbury is dead.”

Alvar sucked in his breath. So the old archbishop, who had tenaciously clung to life for years, had finally loosened his grip. His last act had been a vindictive connivance, depriving the Fairchild of his wife. Alvar could not pretend sadness. But how would they all fare under his successor, whoever he might be? If it was Edgar’s favourite… “Will Dunstan now leave Worcester for Canterbury?”

The runner took a few more gulps of air. “No, my lord. The Fairchild of Wessex has given Canterbury to his friend the bishop of Winchester, who has gone to Rome to be given the pallium by the pope.”

Alvar scratched his chin. His family had long been friends with the bishop of Winchester, but Winchester’s marriage was a long-standing irritation to Dunstan. Now the Fairchild had reasserted his authority, promoted the bishop, thus denying Dunstan the archbishopric. Depriving the Fairchild of his wife had not had the desired sedating effect. Young Edgar had been under no illusion that force would one day be required in order to secure the whole kingdom for himself, but his devotion to the Church had led him to take ill-conceived advice in the first instance. Now; now was the time for the more honest approach of warfare. Alvar smacked his lips together and jumped onto his horse. “Let us go, my fellows. There is a storm brewing at the bishop of Worcester’s house, and King Edgar will need us to take its lightning into Wessex.”

Helmstan was sleeping on his back with his arm under her neck. Káta lay against his shoulder and listened to the quiet of the afternoon. Once the herbs and straw on the floor had been replaced each morning her duties carried her around the estate, rarely to return to the bedchamber until evening. She took the opportunity to look at the room in appraisal. One of the shutters was loose at the hinge and the largest of the wooden chests would not shut. New boxes would be needed if Helmstan’s clothes were to be stored as befitted his rank. The walls were bare; they should be brightened with wall-hangings. They did not yet have the money to put silverware, never mind gold, on the tables, but they needed new cups. Perhaps she could ride to Chester for new pottery, maybe a softer-worked fur for the bed, and while she was there she could buy gold thread for embroidery, to make her walls match those at the royal houses. She was surely not the only young wife who wanted her home to look pretty.

Helmstan stirred and she said, “At the new king’s house; are they all rich men who dress well and dance with the pretty ladies?”

His shoulder twitched. “God, no.”

She lifted her head and he slid his arm from underneath her neck. Turning onto his side, he opened his eyes and smiled.

He yawned and rubbed his face. “There are many rich folk there, but now that Dunstan is back, he and Edgar are keen to show that the court in London is more pious and godly than the old court in Wessex.” He chuckled. “Alvar said to me once that he had seen more mirth at a burial… What is it my love; are you cold?”

“No, it is only that the name brought to mind…”

“Whose name; Alvar’s?”

Pretending a cough, Káta moved onto her back and turned her head away so that Helmstan could not see her face. She found a mark on the corner of the blanket which she must rub off and she kept her head turned to the wall as she thought of the earl. Helmstan loved him beyond measure and therefore so should she, but she had found him haughty. She realised now that it was his arrogant remarks that had prodded her into thinking her home too shabby. But beyond the insult itself, why should she care what he thought of her? The only blessing was that he had been so busy thinking himself too good for the likes of her, that he had not even  spotted the scar on her hand, so high was his nose in the air. No, it was to her shame that she could not warm to her husband’s dearest friend.

And yet, she also had a memory of his face. He had been so excited, when he left, at the prospect of a fight, and perhaps being able to be of use to his king. She saw how his eyes lit up, those lovely grey eyes surrounded by squint lines where the sun had not reached, eyes that had teased her into believing that she wished him to look at her more often. She thought about his mouth, set in a permanent smile even when he was speaking, that flattered her into wishing he would talk to her more, even though her cheeks would set on fire. She lifted her head, breathed in, and stroked her hands down her stomach. She wriggled her buttocks and moved closer to Helmstan, disturbed by the way her body felt. How aberrant, to have such thoughts about a man who was firstly her husband’s greatest friend, and furthermore a man whom she found it impossible to like.

She exaggerated a shiver and hoped her feigned distaste would distract him from the rise of her body temperature. “Dunstan; I meant Dunstan. I have heard what happens when he witnesses sinful acts.”

Helmstan tunnelled one arm underneath her body and wrapped the other around her. He tickled her ribs. “Have you been worshipping at the well-spring today?”

Her diversion had worked and, the danger passed, she exhaled deeply and laughed. “I did as the old women bade me. I left gifts in the hope that I would get with child. Your wife is naught but another wretched sinner.”

He pulled her closer still. With his mouth against her hair he said, “Ah love, the priest sees you every day in his church, so he would not guess.” He lowered his voice and stroked her arm. “Besides, no man would bear you ill-will for craving a child. Churchmen give no thought to the words of the wise women, and the best way to beget a…” He coughed, following it with a laugh that was just a little too loud. “As for Dunstan, he wants to alter the Church, yes, but not little churches like ours, nor their flock. When he is not playing his harp and writing sermons he is telling all who will listen about the sorry plight of the monasteries.”

She drew small circles on his chest with her fingertip. “What is wrong with them?”

“Many were left in ruins after the Vikings came and went. Dunstan and his friend, the abbot Athelwold, wish to bring all the monks under one law, that of Saint Benedict. They will be far too busy to worry about folk in the north who still cling to something of the old gods to see them through each weary day.”

She barked a sharp laugh. “Good for them, for it would be like gathering water in a sieve. My mother is a heathen Dane and she is not alone. Many folk leave gifts by the oak tree for Thunor, many folk leave ox blood on an elf-hill thinking to heal their sick loved ones. If those men were to make laws against such things...”

“No, they would not.” He kissed the top of her head, and spoke in no more than a murmur. “Although, if they could make a law to put a stop to your mother…”

Káta wriggled her head up away from his chest so that she could breathe more freely. “I will forget that you said that. And if you say that I will not be damned for what I did today, then I must believe you.” She brought her right hand up from under the covers and scratched her scar.

“What ails it?  Does it twinge?”

“No, merely an itch.” She hid it away again. “It is not as useful as my mother’s finger bones. She always swore that they ached when the wind was about to turn west-wise.” Káta sighed. “I can still hear her screams when she saw my bloodied hand, wailing that she would never find me a husband.”

Helmstan’s belly vibrated against her as the laugh worked its way up his body. “Ha! How little she knew. I was smitten by love the first time I saw you.”

“You say so and I thank you. But I know that most men would not think the same way.” Indeed, how much lower would his friend’s opinion of her have sunk had he seen her disfigurement?
She reached up and twisted a curl of Helmstan’s hair round her finger as she stared at the scar, thinking back to the day when the tree-wright reached too high into the tree, seeking to lop one more branch, and lost his grip on the saw. As always when she saw it again from the distance of years, the blade fell to the ground where Káta the child was playing, but her mind came back to the present before it landed. She shivered and brought her thoughts to the strands wrapped around her finger; Helmstan’s hair, coarse but strong. Káta smiled. Her mother always said that sadness did not cook the broth and she was right; life was for getting on with. Her hand was spoiled but not ruined, for mercifully no fingers were severed, and her husband loved her. She propped herself up on one elbow and leaned her head until it was above his. “So, now that I have snared you, I must be sure to be good, or you might call me
witch
, and then who knows what I might one day be asked to answer for?” She giggled, enjoying the newly found confidence to flirt.

He grinned and put his finger on her lips. “I can tell you that. In my house, it is my word that is law, so you will be found guilty of naught as long as you do as I say.”

She kissed the finger before he slid it away. “What would you have me do?” Her cheeks were warm but she managed to hold his gaze.

The shutter began to clatter against the window frame. He kissed her mouth. “Hark at that. The wind is getting up. You should stay abed with me where it is warm.”

“Well then, if you say so, my lord…” Still smiling, she closed her eyes. She could afford to linger; there was time enough before the storm came to worry about the task of mending a lame shutter tossed in the strengthening breeze.

Worcester

Dunstan’s legs were stiff; he was too old, perhaps, to spend an entire night kneeling in prayer on the cold cathedral floor. But pray he must, if he were to discover God’s plan for him. So far he had received no clear answer, save that it was not to serve Him from the throne at Canterbury. Taking respite now in the comfort of his hall, where the fire blazed in the hearth and the heavily embroidered wall-cloths kept the warmth in the room, he held his hands in front of the flames, flexing them in and out of fists to get the blood flowing back through his numbed fingers. He rubbed his right knee, attempting to massage some life back into it. A visitor came into the hall, and as Dunstan stood up to acknowledge him, he noticed that his newly arrived house-guest, younger than he, had a limp which was much more pronounced than when they had last met, during Dunstan’s year of exile. Dunstan embraced the other man and gestured to the seats. As he sank back into his chair, he said, “I am sorry to meet you again in such times. God forgive me for my pride, but I had hoped that when next we met, I would be welcoming you to your new church here at Worcester whilst I packed my chests and rode to Canterbury.”