Alvar the Kingmaker (39 page)

Wulfgar said, “What is he thinking?

Helmstan shook his head. “What does he mean to do?

As Godere moved towards him, Alvar lunged forward from his saddle to stop him, but missed by a hand’s breadth.

Helmstan stood up in his stirrups and reached out with both arms. “I have him.” He caught the edge of the saddle cloth and twisted round with it as Godere rode by. The thegn had gained speed; the cloth ripped through Helmstan’s hands and he fell from his horse.

As Godere thundered closer to the turned backs of the East Anglians, divots of soft fenland soil flew up. Thetford turned round and manoeuvred his horse so that he could face Godere head on. He, too, raised his sword, but as Godere crashed at him, sword arm up and ready to strike, Thetford threw down his sword and snatched a spear from his guard. He held his shield ready to deflect Godere’s blow, but when Godere was near enough and raised his arm to strike, Thetford held the spear up and thrust it into Godere’s unprotected side. The spearhead pierced Godere’s byrnie as quick and clean as a kingfisher dive, breaking the surface as if it were water. Momentum carried Godere’s torso halfway down the shaft. Thetford let go and Godere thumped to the ground.

The soldiers stared. Only the banners broke the stillness as they slip-slapped in the east wind. Athelwold made the sign of the cross, Brandon bowed his head. Thetford dismounted but stayed by his men.

Someone in the Mercian fyrd struck his spear shaft against his shield. Others joined in and the rhythmic thumping stirred Alvar from his daze. He ran, and skidded onto his knees by the fallen thegn. He leaned over Godere’s face, but felt no breath. Brandon and Athelwold came to stand by the body.

Alvar said, “He is dead.” He stood up. “My lord Brandon, you and I will speak with your brother about this man’s wergild.”

Brandon flushed. “My brother will know what he has to do. He is a great… ”

Alvar put up his hand and Brandon flinched. “You…” Alvar uncurled his fist and put his arm back down by his side. “You must tell him, my lord Earl.” He turned to the bishop. “Before you offer up this man’s soul, I will hold to my oath and take my men from this field. But listen; do you hear how they shout? Their feelings are strong. This is not merely a fight between earls; this goes much deeper and will take a lot of healing.” He began to walk away. “I will send men to take this poor man’s body, but now I have a wounded thegn who needs my help.”

He ran back to Helmstan, who was lying where he had fallen. Wulfgar was on his knees beside him.

Alvar said, “Any broken bones, friend? Your wrinkled brow tells me that there are.” He knelt down and felt along Helmstan’s legs.

Helmstan said, “No. I had the wind knocked out of me and I will have a sore arse tomorrow, but otherwise I am whole.” He twisted his head and looked towards the cluster of people gathered round Godere’s corpse. “I wish, though, that I could have stopped him. He was a good thegn, but his tongue always took him further than his thoughts might have led him. Now all I can do is to get his wergild for his widow.”

“I have already said that I will speak to Thetford about it. He may be brother to the earl of these lands, but he need not think he can kill a thegn without amends. Here, give me your hand and let us get you back on your saddle. Can you ride?”

Helmstan’s chin jutted forward as if his teeth were clenched, but he nodded.

Alvar clicked his fingers for a runner to fetch Helmstan’s men, and he and Wulfgar helped him to his feet. Helmstan leaned on them as they looked once more at the bloodstain on the fenland soil. Helmstan allowed Wulfgar to lift him back into his saddle.

Alvar said, “Ride home, friend. Have that sweet wife of yours look at those wounds that you are hiding from me, and come back to us when you can.”

Flanked by his men, Helmstan left the field. He sat bent over the saddle, one shoulder higher than the other. He disappeared beyond the line of tents and Alvar shook his head.

Wulfgar said, “When he first fell, he was holding his side. I could see that it was hard for him to breathe.”

“I know. I saw it too.”

Chapter Eighteen AD 977

Gloucestershire

In his great hall at Upper Slaughter, Alvar was sitting at a table on the dais with Wulfgar on one side and his steward on the other. He glanced down and re-read the document in his hands. Set on richly embroidered cloths, the finest candlesticks cluttered the table in front of him, and his two favourite hounds were lying sprawled behind him on the floor, their tails occasionally thrumming against the bottom hem of an enormous wall-hanging and causing a cold draught. Brandon of East Anglia and his brother were sitting side by side, facing him. Next to them were representatives for Ely Abbey, three monks whose apparel was the only drab cloth in the room. Brandon was looking past Alvar to the wall behind him and his cheek twitched when Alvar said, “You did not think to find such rich gold wall-hangings in my house. Did you think that with no woman of my own, my house would be bare?”

Brandon put his hand to his face as the colour bled into his cheeks.

“You do not answer. That tells me that I am right, then.” Alvar sat forward and stared at Brandon, but the younger man looked down.

Lord Thetford leaned forward and opened his mouth, but Alvar gave him no chance to speak.

“So, to business.” He slapped the document with the back of his hand. “It says here that King Edgar gifted forty hides of land at Hatfield to the abbey of Ely.” Alvar looked up.

The monks answered with enthusiastic nods.

“It says further that the land was rich in wood, and would therefore give the good brothers endless timber and firewood.”

Again there was vigorous nodding.

“Then Brandon of East Anglia and his brother took the land, saying that it had been stolen from their father.”

The monks shook their heads whilst Thetford gave one, emphatic nod.

“Now the good monks wish to buy back the land which was their only woodland. Have I understood this right?”

One of the monks cleared his throat. “My lord, we offer in its stead, thirty hides at Hemingford which were willed to the abbey by Wulfstan of Dalham.”

Alvar wondered who this Wulfstan was, and whether he had bequeathed the land willingly.

But Thetford said, “We could have settled this matter ourselves.”

Alvar said, “Really? If, as you say, that land was stolen from you, then you are also saying that King Edgar was a thief.”

Thetford glared at him dismissively. “King Edgar did not know at the time that it was stolen, but that is not the point. As to the monks’ offer, I know that the land at Hemingford was not the only land bequeathed by Wulfstan. He also left the abbey six hides at Wennington.”

Alvar said, “Holy hell. You crave that, too?”

Thetford said, “And more besides, because those two together would still not be worth the land at Hatfield.”

Alvar was determined to settle all these disputes lawfully. “If I were you, my lord Thetford, I would stop my bleating. I have been told that Godere’s widow has not yet been paid her man’s wergild. I give you thirty days. If you foul my hall with falsehoods today, I will shorten it to fourteen.”  He glared at Thetford until the other man accepted the threat and sat back.

Alvar turned once more to the monks. “What else have you got?”

They bent their heads and conferred. They looked up at Brandon, glanced at Alvar, and huddled together once more.

Alvar slipped off his garnet ring and twirled it over his thumb and back to his fingertip. “Brothers, if we could have an answer before dusk… These good lords must make their way home to East Anglia.” He grinned at the accused.

Brandon said, “It is kind of you to think of our plight.”

Alvar continued to smile at him.

Brandon’s jaw dropped slack. “Oh, you meant that we must begin our ride home, for there is no welcome at your hearth this night.”

Wulfgar let out a snort. Alvar clicked his fingers, and servants came forward to pour drinks into gold cups.

One of the monks raised a hand. “My lord, if we must… There are five hides at Welling which we could offer.”

“How came the abbey by these?”

“They came to the abbey through the wrongdoing of Wulfwine the cook and his wife, Alswytha. It was lawfully written and witnessed.”

Alvar sighed. “I knew a woman, once, of that name. How filthy this world would look to our Swytha now. My lord of East Anglia, we have heard little from you. What do you have to say?”

Brandon sat up and smoothed his tunic, and Alvar glanced behind him to where the smaller of the two hounds thumped his tail, waiting in the same way to be noticed.

Brandon patted a pouch full of documents. “Should you care to read these, you will see how many acres of land the abbey now holds which were taken unlawfully, or else not bought for their full worth. It is not hard to believe that the land at Hatfield came to the abbey in a likewise way.”

Alvar grunted. He agreed. They had suffered at the hands of Ely almost as much as Worcester’s land thefts had plagued him. Could they see it, though? “How does it feel, now that you tread in my shoes?”

Brandon shook his head and looked at his brother.

Alvar said, “I can see that you do not understand. As at Worcester, so at Ely? No? Well, so be it.” He stood up, pushed his chair back, and delivered his judgement. “Hatfield will be given back, in return for Hemingford, Wennington and Yelling.” As Thetford tutted and blew, he said, “Let it be written. And do not be sent like children to me again.”

Outside Alvar’s hall, the overhang of billowing willow trees shaded a cool green sward. A light breeze carried the song of a thrush from the orchard. Alvar stood on the soft grass, closed his eyes, and breathed in the cleansing air, deep and full.

Wulfgar joined him. They stared at each other and gave in to their laughter.

“God, if I died today, the first thing I would do at heavenly gate would be to thank the Lord for giving me this morning.” When Alvar had vowed to restore order through the strict application of the law, he had not expected to derive amusement from it.

Wulfgar wiped at his eyes with his tunic sleeve. “Truly they looked as if they had come before the hangman, did they not?”

“I think that they would rather see the hangman than have to sit before me. Ely has become like Worcester; they could not see what I meant by that, but now they know how it feels to have their land taken from them by the Church. What a sweet taste. East Anglia bows to me, and Oswald is penned in Worcester. Oh, life is good.”

He had not seen the visitor when he first came outside, but now the young rider  dismounted and approached them, hanging back while they laughed again and thumped each other on the back.

“Lord… Alvar?”

“Yes, I am he. You find us in a merry mood, so I am bound to say yes to whatever you ask.”

“No, my lord, I have not come to ask anything of you.” The youth’s arm seemed too heavy to lift as he pointed without precision to the tether-post. Next to his mount, head down, a pack horse was grazing on the sweet grass.

Alvar looked where the boy pointed. The sight stole his laughter; a pail of water over a drunk’s head. “You bring me heriot?”

The boy nodded and looked at the ground.

“Whose is it?”

The pack horse raised its head to reveal a white flash on its nose. Alvar exchanged glances with Wulfgar, and Wulfgar ran over to the beast. He looked at the painted shield and then at the finely engraved sword. He picked up the helm and turned it over in his hands, fingering the dents. Alvar let out his held breath, but only snatched at another one.

The boy handed him a written message, but it lay unopened, unnecessary, in Alvar’s hands, as Wulfgar stumbled the few steps back to them.

“It is Helmstan’s. It is Helmstan who is dead.”

Cheshire 

“He all but fell from his horse after riding from Peterborough that night. It was hard for him to breathe and when we got him to his bed, we found that two of his ribs were broken. We bound him tight, and he lay abed all through winter, and we thought that he would heal come springtime. It was a hard winter, as you know. Many folk starved.” Káta looked up. “We lost Burgred. And Brunstan.”

She lowered her head again and stared at her hands. “We took care that our lord did not go hungry. But he never regained his strength. His breathing grew hoarse, even though we gave him cheese with dry bread to help his weak chest. Then the fever came to Ashleigh.” She fidgeted in her chair. “So many were sick with it, and we did not let them near our lord but he had no strength. A cough came that would not be soothed, not even with honey and dill seed, and it worsened, and brought with it so much blood…”

Siferth reached forward and took her hand. “There is no more to tell, Uncle.”

Alvar swallowed to shift whatever was stuck in his throat. He blinked and turned away. The hall was full of more bundles and belongings than there were people, and it seemed that as well as the house staff, many villagers had been finding comfort from sleeping in the hall since the death of their lord.

He took a steadying breath and turned back to Káta. “My lady, what can I say to ease your hurt?” Helmstan had bequeathed most of his lands to her, knowing that Siferth would be gifted his own by the queen, and there might be some comfort in the realisation that she was wealthy enough to take care of all their dependants. But when would she surrender to personal grief?