Alvar the Kingmaker (35 page)

“I can only thank you for letting the horse-shit dry; many would have thrown a steaming turd on me and left me to rot. You, at least, have a good heart.”

“Yes. And as I hear from those words that you are truly yourself again, we need no longer speak of things…” She stood up.

He reached for her hand but missed. “No, Lady, let us speak of them, for once and for all time.”

She went to the table at the side of the room.

He slid his hands under the blankets. “We cannot keep running from this.”

Káta picked up a wash cloth and dipped it into a water bowl. She wrung it out and said, “Well, you cannot run, and that is the truth.”

He moved his head from side to side and beat his hands on the bed under the covers. “Oh, if I could only…” His voice was low; his words little more than a mumble. “I love you.”

She stopped wringing the cloth, but stood with her back to him, so still that he could not be sure she was breathing. It was the moment when, if she had not heard, he could pretend it was never said.

With the slowest of hand movements, she placed the cloth back in the bowl, wiped her hands on her skirt, and turned around to face him. “What did you say?”

The moment of safety gone, he blundered on. “You are the woman I crave. It is a good thing I never took a wife, for she would have suffered. I love you; I think I have loved you from the day I first saw you. But you are Helmstan’s woman and I will never do aught to mar that.”

Her tears fell again. She did not smile, but there were no lines on her brow, and she tilted her head as if to welcome the wash of tears on her cheeks. “I am Helmstan’s wife, and I will love him and ever be true to him.”

What a fool. “Oh God, forgive me, I should not have said…” He held out his arms, but punched the bed again.

She took a step forward, but kept one hand on the table behind her. “No, my lord, hear me out. If it could be any other way I would hold you now and keep you from ever leaving me again. If I could be yours, I would.”

He raised one arm and she came to him, holding her right hand out until her fingertips brushed his, but she came no nearer.

“Then it is said, and it is known.” Exhausted, he closed his eyes and slept.

“Come at me again, and go at my left leg, to get under my shield if you can. Then we will learn some more downward blows to the head and shoulders.”

“And then can I do it with an iron sword?”

Propped against the wooden fencing of the paddock, Alvar shifted his weight until his leg was comfortable again. He nodded at Siferth. “You might as well learn how to wield a man’s blade, although not one that has been near a whetstone. But for now, this will keep your mother from becoming wroth with us.”

“Is that what you think?”

Alvar, caught out in clear breach of the rules of his rehabilitation, put on what he thought was his most endearing smile, with little hope of success.

Siferth stopped his run up and scraped to a halt in the frozen mud. “Mother, it is only made of wood.”

Káta put her hands on her hips. “It could be woven cloth for all I care. Your uncle Alvar is a sick man and you should not be asking him to come out in this weather to play fighting games with you.” She exhaled through her mouth and pointed at the breath-cloud. “It is too cold today.”

Siferth lifted his chin, an act of defiance less meaningful now that he stood a head higher than his mother. He had his father’s build and his mother’s looks and Alvar waited to see who would win the battle of wills.

“Uncle Alvar tells me he is well enough, and I believe him.”

“Oh yes? Did he tell you how he needs to get his strength back after losing so much blood? Did he tell you how long it would take for the wound to heal? And then does he know how long it will be before his leg is as strong as it was?” She turned to Alvar. “When I stopped you leaving before the first snow, it was not so that you could do this instead.”

He pushed his hair out of his eyes. “I am barely putting any weight on it, I swear to you. And the youngling wishes to learn these new skills. He will need them.”

“You see, Mother, Uncle Alvar is right. I must learn how to do these things, and I must learn it from the best.”

She turned round again. “Oh, you have him eating out of your hand.” To her son she said, “When are you thinking you will need these skills? And why?”

“So that I can keep the queen from harm.”

“Oh; her.”

Siferth made a few thrusts through the air with his wooden sword. “I know that you like her not, Mother.”

Káta leaned back against the fencing and looked at Alvar. “No, my son, you are wrong.”

Alvar raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

She did not drop her gaze. “Sometimes, one small drop of knowledge is enough to calm a stormy sea of envy. I am wise enough to let you go to the queen, for I understand that while you might love her, it does not mean that you no longer love me, any more than my staying here means that I do not love you. Go, with my blessing.”

Siferth said, “Thank you, Mother.”

A warmth from his belly spread through Alvar’s body until it burst out as a grin that threatened to split his face. He said, “Yes, thank you.”

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I was not speaking to him.”

Alvar made a grab for her tiny hand and squeezed it. “I know.”

“Mother. Mother! Look at what I can do.”

She turned her head to look at her son, but kept eye contact with Alvar until the last possible moment. She said, “Well, if you must learn, then as you say, you should learn from the best. But if my lord gets broken again…”

Káta walked back to the enclosure gate.

Siferth said, “Mother spoke as if she were teasing, but she must think that you are a great man, for she is keen not to have you sick again.”

Alvar grinned. “Your mother is a wonderful woman.”

Káta pressed each item into his hand. “You must put this salve on, for there will yet be swelling, more so after a hard day’s ride. And I showed you how this must be boiled up to a brew. I know that they have Leeches in the south, but it is hard to step in and take over where another has begun the healing. It will be sore for many weeks yet and even after that you might still have twinges.” She looked up. “I am speaking too swiftly.”

He stepped outside, put the things into his pack, and beckoned her from the hall doorway. She stepped towards him but her legs felt unsteady. A gust of wind slapped her dress against her legs and she pulled her cloak tight round her body.

He reached out and lifted her chin. “I will see that no harm comes to him. He is the son of my best-loved thegn, and his mother is most dear to me. You must not worry.”

He dropped his hand and she kept her face tilted towards him. She tried to meet his eyes, but had to look away, for the tears were hot and ready to boil over. “I know you will look after him. But I…”

Helmstan came striding out from the hall and Siferth followed him, a smile pinned to his face, and his eyes wide like a child’s on its birthday.

Helmstan rubbed his arms in an effort to keep warm against the wind. “The snow has melted but you should find the roads hard enough to ride before it all turns to mud.”

Káta held her arms out to Siferth but he glanced up at Alvar and wriggled from her grasp. “Mother…”

His father laughed. “Now we know that he is full-grown, if he will not wear his mother’s arms.”

Káta clamped her hands to her sides until Alvar and Siferth had mounted their horses. Alvar nodded to her and Helmstan, and before the horses clattered out of the gateway, Káta released the tears. She and Helmstan waved long after the riders had stopped casting backward glances.

Helmstan said, “I know it is hard for you my love, but he is old enough to be with a foster-father and I know of no other man whom I would entrust with my son’s life.”

A sob broke from her and she flung her arms round his neck. “Oh, you are a good man. There is none better.”

Chapter Sixteen AD 975

Deira (Yorkshire)

Alvar prayed that Earl Beorn had not retreated to Earl Wulf’s territory in the ancient kingdom of Bamburgh. A ride of any great distance these days aggravated his damaged thigh; he did not want to arrive at Beorn’s residence only to ride yet further north. From Leicester they took the old Roman road from Doncaster, through Castleford and on to Tadcaster. The terrain was the usual shrouded, water-logged hell pit that he found so hard to navigate and he did not trust the warty, withered old man who guided them. But he had chosen this route to avoid the ferry crossing at Barton-on-Humber and now had to rely on this little warlock to steer a course through the sodden misty marshland. Brandon, who was so keen to please and so familiar with murky fenlands, would have felt more at home here. But the task had been asked of the lord of Mercia and duty had saddled his horse.

Wulfgar was riding beside him, with Helmstan close behind, leading a party of twenty Mercian thegns. Too many, Alvar thought, but it was ‘
Better to have them and not need them than rue the day they were left behind
.’ It made sense; more so than the finger of doubt that tickled his spine and would not be stilled. The July sky darkened. The rain, which all day had threatened to fall from the solid grey cloud, broke free in a vertical assault that attacked the backs of their necks before they had a chance to pull on their hooded cloaks. In the humid afternoon, many had been riding in only their breeches and undershirts, but they were no cooler when the rain came, and as the thunder growled and lightning rent the blackened sky, they quickened their pace when told that a short gallop would see them to their journey’s end at Wighill.

Alvar had not sent an advance rider, but he was sure that Beorn knew he was coming. Would he wait for him?

They slithered to a halt outside Beorn’s hall and dismounted. Alvar wiped at the smell of wet mud in his nostrils. He detailed a party to stay with the horses and took only Helmstan, Wulfgar, Brihtmær of Chester, Aswy of Shropshire, and Ingulf of Worcester into the earl’s hall with him.

The premature evening rendered the inside of the building gloomy. The fire in the hearth burned low, and in the corner of the room a whistler was playing a mournful tune on an apple-wood flute. It was a popular instrument in York, but Alvar found the tone too morose and he hoped that he would not have to talk over the noise. He and his men took off their sodden cloaks and shook them before handing them to a servant who set the garments by the fire to dry.

Earl Beorn was seated upon the dais. A gold arm ring was hanging loose around his wrist. He was touching the fingertips of both hands together and allowing the ring to slide from one wrist to the other and back again. As Alvar approached, he let the ring fall to the table where it whirled, clattered, and lay flat. Only when the noise died away did he speak. “My lord Alvar, how do you like our northern weather?”

“It is a little wet for my liking.” Alvar’s words came out as if his voice belonged to someone else. He coughed.

“Be thankful, then, that you did not have to fetch me from my house in York; the dale will most likely be flooded by morning.”

It was a poor effort at humour and with the mention of York, Alvar had no need to make the pretence of a smile. “You know then, why I am here?”

“I do.” Beorn signalled the piper to stop. “What I do not know is what you are going to do.”

The silence was an oppressive successor to the awful music. Helmstan and Wulfgar kept rigid guard either side of the doorway, and the other thegns stared at the food and drink on the table, though none reached forward to take it. Beorn remained motionless and looked at the lifeless arm ring on the table. Away from the warmth of the fire, Alvar smelled for the first time the musty dampness which must have pervaded the hall at his every visit. A lump in his throat, his companion since he left Wessex, quivered in his windpipe. His head throbbed from the strain of keeping his eyes dry. The musician sat with the pipe now harmless in his lap and Alvar felt the stilled air begin to thicken until it pressed his bones. “God’s ballocks, man, what were you thinking? The king is dead; you should be with me and the rest of the witan while we choose an atheling as the new king. Instead, we hear that you made straight for the archbishop’s house and tried to kill him.”

Beorn tried a grim joke. “At least with me at York, you cannot blame for the king’s death.”

“I wish I could. It would tell me how a man of three and thirty, strong and healthy, dropped down dead after no sickness.” Alvar jumped onto the dais and threw himself into a chair alongside Beorn. They stared out into the hall. Alvar waved at the other men who were waiting by the hearth. “Eat,” he said.

Brihtmær and Aswy helped themselves, while Ingulf took some bread and cheese over to the men standing guard by the door.

Beorn looked round. “What news from Wessex?”

Alvar shook his head. “The queen is at her wits’ end, in deep mourning. As are we all, but that does not stop the fighting over which of the athelings will become king.”

“Æthelred must be the one. It was written in law. His mother is a queen.”