Alvar the Kingmaker (28 page)

A cry went up from somewhere behind them. “My lords, the bowmen; look out!”

Káta stepped out of the widower Brunstan’s dwelling. She sniffed, and smelled the subtle change in the air that signalled the beginning of the end of the summer. The harvest was due in, and there was enough of a cool breeze in the evenings to warrant the wearing of a light cloak. She turned at the sound of footsteps as young Haward clattered over the footbridge.

“My lady, thank God I have found you,” he said. He leaned over and looked down at the ground while he caught his breath.

“What is it? Is your sister unwell again?”

“No, beyond the ridge… The men are coming home”

Káta felt her shoulders lift. “Oh thank God. I will run back and tell Leofsige.”

He touched her arm. “No, my lady. There are wounded among the men; it is not food they need, but your leech-worts.”

“My leaves and herbs are at Hild’s house.”

“Yes, my lady.”

She put her fingers to her temple. “Are her sons among the wounded?”

“No, my lady, I saw them walking with the others. Shall I fetch your things and bring them to you?”

“Yes. Yes, thank you.”

Káta lifted her skirts, urgency compelling her to run out of the little valley, but fear slowing her steps back to her own manor. The resulting hurried walk pounded her shins. The path-side brambles scratched at her ankles, but she put the pain away, to suffer later. At Ashleigh, she shouted to those in and around the hall. “Look lively, stir yourselves. The men are coming home.”

Gytha put down her besom and walked towards the doorway. “When?”

Káta glanced over her shoulder at the gate. “Now.”

They came in at the speed of the slowest man’s walk; even those who were unscathed and on horseback moved at a weary pace. Káta and Gytha scanned them all and went to those who at first glance seemed most in need of help. One of the horses had been pulling a litter, and Káta went to tend the man who was lying on it. She dropped to her knees, lifted back the blankets of fur, and saw the closed-eyed face of her husband.

Helmstan, roused by her gasp, spoke in a drowsy whisper. “Do not be worrying about me, Wife. It is but a wounded foot, swollen too sore to let me ride.” The corners of his mouth lifted a little. “My lord Alvar is glad to tell all who ask, that a Welsh arrow struck me whilst I was fleeing.”

Her shoulders relaxed and she smiled. Then she pursed her lips, stood up, and folded her arms. “And where is the man who led you into this?”

“Thank you for worrying, but I merely have a slight sword wound to the shoulder. It only broke the flesh and is not deep.”

She looked up at Alvar. He smiled, but blinked with slow-moving lids. He had one hand on the reins and the other arm in a makeshift sling fashioned from a linen undershirt. It was darkly stained with blood.

Káta’s mouth was dry. Her head thumped from the ache of anxiety, and her stomach, tied in knots of fear since she first heard that there were wounded amongst the men, now gurgled to remind her that she had not eaten all day.

“Gytha, which of these halfwits should I see to first? The earl is hurt the worst, but during a game of his own making. My lord husband is not so badly wounded, but did not bring it upon himself; he merely followed his lord.”

A few of the men sniggered.

Gytha said, “Your lord needs to be taken to his bed and a bolster put under his foot.
His
lord needs a new binding for his wound, and some chicken broth with marrow and melted butter.”

Káta turned round to the men and smiled. “Yes, laugh, for you are home, and you are alive. You are blessed, be glad. Leave your swords and spears.” Young Haward had arrived with her medicine stores and she set him to work collecting all the weapons. “Send the swords to the smith for sharpening and ask him to put new hafts on the spears. Then find what you can in the bake-house to fill your belly.” She smiled. “By way of thanks for your help.”

The sun had almost set and they shepherded the men into the hall to warm by the fire. Two thegns helped Káta settle Helmstan into his bed and she inspected his wound.

He sat up on his elbows. “I must go to the hall. There are deeds that I must speak of and there must be a gift-giving. These men fought well…”

Káta pushed him down flat again. “You will bide in your bed for a week, otherwise sitting on a gift-stool is all you will be strong enough to do for the next year.” She put aside all notions of restful sleep. “I am the one who must be in the hall.” She planted a hurried kiss upon his brow and went back to the hall.

Someone must have helped Alvar from his horse, for she found him already seated on one of the cushioned benches.

“Gytha, can you bring me a candle-staff?” She picked up a chair and sat down in front of him. “I made light of your wound. Is it sore?”

“It smarts, but only like a bee sting. It will be but another scar soon enough, to go with all my others.”

She cast her gaze downward, reminded of her comment years before, when she had compared childbirth to sword wounds, and hoping that he would not offer to show her any of these other scars, but he seemed bent on behaving himself and no lewd comment came forth. Small wonder, for by the time Gytha placed the candlestick on the table, Alvar’s head had slumped forward and he was fast asleep.

“When I sat up all night and watched you sleeping, it was so that I could see to your needs after you were wounded. I did not think to have my kindness repaid in this way. For days now you have… Will you hand me the shears?” She cut the thread and put the scissors on the ground. “My lord, you sat while Gytha and I swept the floor and put down new straw, then you followed me when I went to fetch the loaves and even tried to help me with your one good arm. Have you never seen a woman sewing before? Even now I feel you staring at me as I stitch.”

“Like a cat looks upon a mouse?”

She rested her mending on her lap and looked up. “No, it puts me more in mind of… I had a gosling once, which hatched out and took me for its mother. It, too, followed me all about.”

He sat still on his stool, his good arm raised to shield his eyes from the sunshine, but despite his efforts, the grey eyes squinted as he looked at her. He said nothing, but a smile twitched his lips.

She made a few more stitches and said, “You were never so keen to keep near to me before.”

“I was never so near to death before.”

“Forgive me for laughing, but did you not say it was but a bee sting?” She stabbed at the cloth with her needle. “Well then, I will speak while you listen. I have no tales, but I believe that the scop has been sent for to proclaim the boldness of young Lyfing. My lord will call him first up to the gift-stool to reward him for his fearlessness. Is it true, then, that he stood in death’s way that my husband might live?” She pulled another stitch through the cloth. “This linen is unsmooth. My husband needs new… My lord, is it true, that Lyfing…” She looked up, but he had gone.

Káta tutted, made a few more stitches and sighed.

Gytha walked by with her arms wrapped around a cluster of logs. She slowed, but did not stop. “What is wrong, Lady?”

As Gytha walked on, Káta said, “I spoke as if I thought him a blain, always with me. But now he has wandered away and it feels more like a butterfly has flown off.”

She left her mending on the stool and looked about outside, but concluded that he was busy elsewhere and would find her if he chose to. With the household still swollen with the men not fit yet to go home, she needed to be in consultation with Leofsige more frequently, and went to the kitchen to discuss the day’s meals with him. The cook-house was always warm and Káta was glad not to have bothered with a veil that morning. A tall figure stood by the table and she called out as she stepped inside the dark building.

“Leofsige? Did you hear me?” It took a few seconds to see after the brightness of the outdoors. It was Alvar, not Leofsige, who was standing beside the table, gnawing on a lump of bread. She paused with one foot forward, her upper body turned ready for retreat. “You do not have to fetch your own food, my lord. Speak out at any time, and my folk will bring whatever you crave.”

“I thought that eating would take my mind off this.” He pointed to his wound. “It itches.” He stuffed the last of the bread into his mouth.

“You must keep using the cleansing salve that I gave you, at least until the whole wound has scabbed. It is a shame that we have no shellfish in the summer, for that would make your blood good again. Leofsige will bring you pease, honeyed and peppered. You must eat it all.” Made braver by this demonstration of expertise, she took a deep breath and moved into the room. “I need to look over my healing things.” She opened the communal herb box and pretended to count, before taking a key from her belt to open the lock on her spice store.

She checked the contents of the box and he chewed the last of the food. He took a sip of ale, but still looked at her even as he raised the cup to his lips.

“You have been staring at me for days now, my lord. If there is something you would do or say you are nearly too late, for my bed-ridden husband will soon be on his feet again.”

“Nearly?”

She dropped the saffron onto the table and tried to scoop up the expensive strands. “I… I only meant that you have had the three days welcome that is owed to you in law. Not that we would not be glad to offer you a longer welcome; and the wounded, and our hall is yours for as long as…”

He took a step towards her and though her fingers shook, she managed to lock the spice box and return it to the side table. From there, she hoped to make her escape. She turned round. He was standing before her, his expression the same as on the day he had ridden out of the manor to Wales. He looked into her eyes and she could not turn her head.

She looked down. “My lord, I…”

He put his good arm on her shoulder, placed the wounded one on her waist, and bent to kiss her on her open mouth. He caught her bottom lip between his own lips and held it there for just one heartbeat.

He turned on his heel and walked outside.

She ran her finger along her lip and cursed her inability to tell indifference from passion. She had been taking only half-breaths, and now she snatched air into her lungs and held onto the table to steady herself. Her cheeks were hot so they must be red, and the shake in her hands would mark her out to anyone as an adulteress, so she stayed a while in the cook-house. She checked the stocks, looked to see which of the dried meats Leofsige had soaked ready to be cooked, and measured portions of dried beans and peas to be added to the pot. When at last she felt able to step outside, she took a few deep breaths, put a hand up to check that her hair was in place, and made her way back up to the hall.

Once, she had hinted that her feelings for him were more than they ought to be. But, rightly, he had not responded, and she thought that they had both forgotten about it. Yet now he had kissed her. Why? Wasn’t it the queen whom he loved? Hadn’t he said as much, down by the river that day? She touched her fingertips to her lips. She might at one time have thought of that kiss as a gift. What on earth was she supposed to do with such a gift now?

Her mending was still on the stool. The yard was empty save for a solitary chicken, until Leofsige came out of the hall frowning and carrying a large purse of coin.

Káta said, “Have you seen Lord Alvar?”

“Gone, my lady. He gave me this for the feeding of the wounded men, then he upped and left.”

Chapter Twelve AD969

Winchester 

The baby’s squalls broke the silence once more and Alvar looked round the hall. Brock smiled, but others looked peeved. Alvar leaned forward to whisper to his brother. “If any man thinks ill of her bringing the bairns with her, he should look at the king and think again.” He nodded towards Edgar, who smiled at Alfreda and received a half smile, half lip-licking invitation. “It is not hard to see why Edgar will give her aught she asks for.”

Brock chuckled. “Nor is it hard to see why you keep staring over there.”

“Where else is there to look? I am bored. Beorn is not here. I do not blame him though; Northumbria is a long way off and he is busy fighting the Scots. Apart from you, who is there to amuse me? Brandon is a dull fart and the Red Lord of Oxford is not red any more, but old and grey and speaks only of his aches and twinges. Bishop Athelwold is asleep,” he looked behind him, “And I find I cannot look at Guthrum without staring, for I have seen thinner necks on a bull.”

The Viking sailor, mercenary and proud of it, was standing against the wall, arms folded. Many were wary of the man who furnished Edgar with a fleet and yet who was tied to the king only by the money paid to him as a hireling.

Brock began a laugh that ended as a cough. “Yes, it is a little like having a bear to keep watch over your house; those within are almost as frightened as those without. I must say though, that like so many others, I should also give up the witan and sit at home by my hearth in my old age. I swear I have aches and twinges to match those of the Red Lord.”

Alvar signalled for drinks. “That is not so, brother. You are young yet and…”

Oswald and Brandon were seated nearest the window, heads bent together. In the sunlight, Brandon’s hair gleamed gold. He looked young next to Oswald, but he must be… Alvar counted the years. If Brandon was twenty-six, the same age as Edgar, then Alvar was… “Thirty-three. Can it be? And that makes you almost fifty.”