Alvar the Kingmaker (3 page)

Alvar had no choice but to raise his own cup and his echo, “Be hale”, rang out as Dunstan passed by the Mercian benches. The abbot stopped but briefly, and stared in Alvar’s direction, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared, before gliding from the room with his head held high, as if he were glad to be leaving the stench of the Fairchild’s kingship behind him.

Ramsey, East Anglia

The afternoon shortened as the sun began to drop from the sky. The beams of reddened light forced their way through the window opening and illuminated a silk slipper, cast off and lying on its side on the floor. Its threads shone golden in the amber-coloured fading light. Outside, the peal of gentle teasing laughter told of dairy maids returning to the cook-house and tired-eyed women emerging from the weaving sheds, while a booming voice identified the reeve ordering the gate to be closed and the braziers lit. Alfreda lay on the bed, listening to the everyday sounds of folk reaching the end of their working day, as she gazed at the pretty slipper. She focused on the delicate threads of embroidery which wound around the opening of the richly adorned footwear, tracing with her gaze the trail of stitching from one side round to the other. She stared as long as she could, grateful for the distraction, then she closed her eyes and waited for the next blow, able to resist protecting with her arm, but unable to stop the instinctive curling into a ball. This time he managed only a glancing blow across the top of her thigh and, though she knew it would bruise, it would not have satisfied him. Finding sanctuary this time in her thoughts, she mused that were she a braver woman she would taunt him for his poor aim and tell him that even as a beater of women, he was a failure. For the most part, he only ever hit her body, because any marks on her face would be visible to the rest of the household, and Elwood of East Anglia would not want his famous father to discover his secret. Not that there was a man in England who wouldn’t sneer in disapproval, for it was not manly to hit a woman, but Alfreda knew that in particular her husband would hate for his father to find out.

She dared to glance up. Elwood wrinkled his nose as he looked down at her
;
his pinched nostrils were flecked with thread-veins which meandered towards his cheek bones. He lifted his chin and stared at the ceiling, as if engaged in some twisted act of invocation and, as his neck went back, his lank hair sat in untidy clumps upon the shoulders of his tunic. Pale lashes failed adequately to frame his equally pale, small eyes, so that his face was a melded mass of uneven skin tone which rendered it almost featureless. He stepped forward and she readied herself.

But not quickly enough. His frustration at missing his target last time added power to his arm and he thumped his fist into her belly, catching her by surprise and knocking the breath from her body. There was no pain in her stomach, but her chest felt tight and she tried and failed to snatch air into her mouth. Another blow to the same part of her abdomen robbed her of all ability to breathe and as he stood up, his still-clenched hand caught the side of her face and a burning sensation shot up her nose to a point of pain in the middle of her forehead. Gasping for air, she reached a hand to her face and her fingers immediately became sticky with blood. She sank back against the pillow, relieved. He would stop now.

Her husband stood over her, peering at her, and then he turned his back. He let out a sigh which set his shoulders shuddering, adjusted his tunic and left the bower. She waited, listening for the sound of his footsteps to diminish, and then she edged slowly off the bed and sank to her knees, holding the side of the bed until her breath came easily again. Letting go of the bed, she shuffled forward, still kneeling, and lifted the lid of her clothes chest, reaching around until she found one of the linens usually reserved for her monthly bleed. Folding it small, she held it to her nose, dabbing and inspecting until the flow ceased. Outside, the raised voices and increased footfall indicated that folk were moving along to the feast hall. Standing slowly she smoothed her kirtle and stepped carefully to the door. Squinting into the darkening gloom, her lower body still on the inner side of the door, she flapped a wave to one of her serving-women, and pointed to her veil, gesticulating that she needed help to tidy it. She shrank back around the door.

Her woman came to re-wrap her headdress but she worked in silence. Alfreda sat helpfully rigid while the woman rearranged the swathe of cloth, but did nothing to encourage any conversation. The servants on the estate were all deferential, but Alfreda was sure that this woman’s quiet reverence was a result of pity. She needed no confirmation by drawing the woman into dialogue.

Dressed and no longer dishevelled, at least in appearance, she made her way to the hall, still unsure what had caused Elwood’s latest bout of anger. Servants bobbed their heads, but she had no words for them either. At an age when most women of her standing would be running their own household, she was miserably aware that there were no keys hanging from her belt. The women were not hers to command, nor could they be her friends. Not that she needed any words, for as soon as they had nodded their obeisance, they turned away. The only armour she had was to deflect the hurt with the thought that, key-holder or not, she was of higher status than they were and she had no need of their pity. Lifting her kirtle hem with one hand, she quickened her pace and walked on, her chin raised and her free hand placed defensively across her chest.

Ahead of her, Elwood’s two younger brothers were walking with Prince Edgar, their foster-brother. They strode in a relaxed manner, arms draped across shoulders, comfortable and familiar. Laughter rose up, in response, she assumed, to bawdy jokes. She slowed her pace, reluctant to catch up with them, but, as if she had not borne enough, the Devil chose this moment to turn Edgar’s head and he disengaged himself from the pack and hung back, allowing the brothers to walk on while he waited for her to draw level. He fell into step beside Alfreda and, even though she had nothing to say to him, he whistled softly, appearing not to mind the silence.

She remained mute, hoping to bore him away, but he stopped whistling and said, “I would never use you so ill. He should not do it.”

She missed a step and stumbled as her heart began to thump against her chest. Shame then gave way to indignation. “How can you speak so, yet keep these brothers as your friends?”

He shrugged. “I am not answerable for the behaviour of others. All I am saying is that I would not do it.” He lengthened his stride and caught up with the others.

Alfreda stared after him and embarrassment warmed her veins once more. But then she began to muse on his words. Could he put a stop to it, if he wanted to? He was certainly influential; he was the son of one king, the brother of another. When his father died, his uncle became king and Edgar, then a tiny infant, was sent here to East Anglia to be fostered in the household of the most powerful noble in the land. Now his uncle was dead, his elder brother was king and Edgar was heir to the throne. But he was still a child, a mere boy of thirteen. And what could a boy possibly do to help her?

Never in the twelve months she had been living on the Isle of Ramsey had she failed to be overwhelmed by the opulence of the mead-hall. She held her breath as she walked through the doorway, her gaze drawn to its great oak frame where carved wolf heads appeared to guard the entrance. Inside, the support pillars were decorated in a similarly ornate way, but instead of animal heads, the engravings took on the form of tendrils of ivy, symbols of protection, curling their way round the upright posts. Embroidered cloths, worked with golden threads, covered the lime plaster on three sides of the hall, and at the far end, behind the lord’s chair, curtains embellished with chevrons hung from the beams to the floor, separating the lord’s private chamber beyond. The lord’s chair also boasted elaborate carvings, the high back covered in three-armed spirals and interweaving lines, the indentations coloured with gold. Along with all the other chairs for the high table, it sported cushions covered with the same sumptuous fabric that graced the walls. In this place, warm and yet not overly welcoming, Alfreda had sat every night amongst the guests of her father-in-law, the lord of East Anglia. He was a man so trusted by recent kings, and rewarded with so much land, either in outright gift or given temporarily into his custody, that he was known to all as the Half-king. She smiled, despite her sore body and wounded pride. Did the Half-king ever wonder, as he looked back on a life of power, success and influence, how he managed to beget such a spindle of an eldest son?

Most had gathered now and among them were the overseas visitors. The Half-king played frequent host to learned men and traders from the continent
;
the merchants from Frankia had arrived the previous evening, and sitting with them was the scholar from Germany who had been a guest for the past few months. Alfreda made her way to her seat. She was joined by the only man in the room who was not clothed in bright colours and who displayed no outward sign of wealth, having not even a sword to hang up. Abbot Athelwold sat down beside her and smiled. Despite his drab garb, the abbot’s presence was the warmest attraction in the hall for Alfreda. His eyes, the colour of molten honey, his gentle smile and softly spoken words were always a fillip on evenings such as this. He was retained by the Half-king as tutor to the younger boys, but often he spoke to her of his dreams for reform of the monasteries, plans that he had begun with his friend Abbot Dunstan, but he was concerned to put the nunneries on an equal footing. His talk of holy women, pious ladies and gentle abbesses poured balm into her ears which had so often been burned with screamed insults, where the word
woman
was synonymous with
whore
.

But this evening he seemed not to want to expound his discourse on the development of the monastic houses. Instead, the kindly abbot leaned in close to her and said, “If there is one thing for which I am truly sorry, it is that when I was brought here as teacher to Edgar and the younger boys, it was too late to mete out any wisdom to your husband.”

Alfreda’s cheeks burned hotter than the hearth-fire. Was there no-one who was unaware of her shame?

But Abbot Athelwold continued. “It saddens me that at seventeen and wed for a year, you have no keys at your belt, nor have you been given your rightful place at the lords’ bench to pour the drinks, as the lady of the house should do.”

Surprise drained the heat from her face and she suppressed an impulse to let out a shrill laugh. Still, better that he should think her ill-treatment at Elwood’s hands extended to no more than a slight to her position as highest-born woman in the widowed Half-king’s household. Besides, there was a hidden blessing to her relegation at mealtimes; from her seat on a lower bench, she could hear the conversation at the head table, without feeling obliged, or being expected, to contribute.

The food was brought in; plates of eels, fresh cheeses and cereal brews flavoured with herbs and spring onions. The smells turned her already tender stomach and Alfreda glanced across at the foreign visitors and contemplated enquiring of them whether Frankish or German men ever beat their women, for she couldn’t help but wonder where Elwood had acquired his notion of what constituted genteel behaviour.

The Half-king had taken his place at the head table and was sitting on the ornately carved chair, with Elwood on one side of him and Prince Edgar on the other. It took only a few mouthfuls of food before Alfreda discovered the source of Elwood’s ire. As had become her habit, she pretended an interest in her food to discourage conversation, which enabled her to listen to those at the head table.

Elwood spat out gobbets of food as he spoke. “So, this brat of a king will not right the wrong he has done to us. You are the only lord who has not been given any new lands since the king-making. Worse, the lands in Mercia of which you were caretaker have been given to Alvar, when they should have formally been given over to you. We are poorer while these upstarts come from nowhere to wield power and strength.”

The Half-king, who was grey-haired but sat with a straight back, finished his mouthful and wiped his lips on a linen napkin before he spoke. “The Fairchild is busy giving land in order to bind the lords to him. Since he does not wholly trust me or mine, and knows that in any case we cannot be bought, he does not try.” He smiled ruefully at his son. “The raising up of the newcomers troubles me as much as it does you, but I will not stoop so low as to beg for more land.”

It seemed that Elwood might choke before he managed to spit out more words and while he continued to splutter and fail to enunciate, Prince Edgar cleared his throat.

“I do not know my brother overly well, but I think he has misunderstood what it means to be king. You cannot buy men’s loyalty, nor is it wise to think that you can earn their steadfastness. It is yours by right, but you must demand it without seeming to. And never show weakness.”

Now it was Alfreda who struggled to swallow her food. She looked again at Edgar and shook her head slowly, trying to reconcile his sagacity with her awareness of his tender age.

Elwood’s brow was creased. He took a swig of ale and said, “Yes, well, word-craft is all well and good, but how will that get me the land that is due to me?”

Edgar raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

“Hah! You see? You have no answer. For all your words, you do not know.”

Alfreda thought that Elwood was wrong. It seemed to her rather that Edgar just didn’t care.

Abbot Athelwold laid a hand on her arm to gain her attention and then whispered to her. “It is true that the Half-king held the Mercian lands after Alvar’s father died. But the Mercians loved that man and they will welcome his son, Alvar, who, from what I have seen, is made from the same clay. He is not merely one of the Fairchild’s creatures; he is a skilled swordsman and his brother, a man whom I have known a long time, tells me he has a sharp mind.”