Alvar the Kingmaker (43 page)

Alvar rolled his eyes and turned round as the hall door swung open. He said to the door-thegn, “Get your lady. And be swift.”

Alfreda came to the doorway and smiled. She put a hand to her head and patted her headdress. Even in his urgency, he found time to notice how absurdly pleased she seemed to be to see him.

“Lord Alvar, you are most welcome; we have pipers, harpers, riddlers and glee-men here, and more than enough ale. Your foster-son sees to it that my hall is always lively. He looks to my needs well.” She continued to smile at him, but drew the tip of her tongue across her lips while she waited for him to speak.

Alvar stepped forward. The warmth of the hearth beyond was a few impossible steps away. But behind him, the shouting continued. He said, “My lady, the lord Edward…”

“The king, my lord? I have not seen him since Yule. What makes you think…?” She looked past his shoulder. “Oh sweet holy Jesus.”

Alvar turned again to look back at the yard. Edward’s sword arm, raised above his head, was a blur against the darkened sky. He leaned forward out of his saddle and brought his arm down. Behind him, the glow from the brazier lit his empty hand, but too late to show the lack of weapon and stay Siferth’s dagger. The blade slammed into Edward’s back.

“Siferth. No!” Alvar ran.

Edward sat back and reached round to feel under his shoulder-blade. He rubbed his fingertips together and looked at them. “Christ, you have killed me.”

His horse reared and broke free from Godric’s grasp. Ulf jumped aside as the front hooves came down, and leaped up to try to reach the reins. Ingulf dived for the tail but missed and landed on the ground, and the stallion ran. The guard at the gate stepped forward, only to spread flat against the gateway as the beast gathered speed. Edward, with only one hand on the reins, struggled to keep his seat and was still within view when he slipped from the saddle. His right foot caught in the stirrup, he was unable to push himself clear, and as the panicked beast continued to run, it dragged Edward along behind.

Godric and Ulf stood and gasped for breath, then ran off in pursuit of the horse and its injured rider. Ingulf and Brihtmær ran to attend to the queen, who stood in the doorway with little Æthelred by her side. Siferth did not move, but stood with the bloodied knife in his hand. He continued to stare at it even as Alvar uncurled his fingers and took it from him.

“Uncle, I…” Siferth surrendered; he stumbled forward into Alvar’s arms and sobbed.

Alvar let the knife drop to the ground and held the boy. Once, years ago, Brock’s eldest son had broken a cart wheel. His world was over and yet he had clung to his uncle, unshakable in his belief that grown men can mend all. Alvar struggled to keep his thoughts in the present, so alike were the cries in this dark night.

Ulf and Godric returned, their faces white in the moonlight. Godric opened his mouth, and the queen’s scream began before he had finished his words.

“The king is dead.”

The queen screamed again, little Æthelred wailed as he clutched her skirts, and Siferth slumped to the ground with his head in his hands.

Ulf said, “We followed him over the bridge and up the hill and the horse would not stop but kept going and we did not think we could catch up to him and it was not until we reached the settlement on the other…”

Alvar held his hand up to silence him. This was not a time for explanations, or even protracted thought. He must act. “Siferth, come here and kneel before me. You will swear hold-oath to me as your lord.” He reached behind him and clicked his fingers. Brihtmær pushed a gold cruciform brooch into his hand. “Swear,” Alvar said again, “On this holy thing…”

Siferth stuttered the words of the hold-oath.

Alvar lifted him, gave him the kiss and said, “Now you are my man. Do you hear me?
My
man.” To Godric and Ulf he said, “Show me.”

He followed them as they led him away from the royal settlement, round the west hill, past a line of trees, black now against the purple sky, and through a cluster of small dwellings. Beyond the one-roomed houses they showed him a well. The king’s horse was standing nearby.

Alvar peered into the well. “Oh, tell me you did not.”

They looked down at the ground. Ulf said, “My lord, we were frightened. We did not know what to do. We thought it best if folk could not see the bod… The king’s…”

Alvar shifted his weight from one foot to the other; the grass was springy beneath him and he longed only to lie down on it. “Wareham is near here, I think. Fetch a monk from there. Have him bury the body.”

“Uncle?”

He looked up. Siferth had followed them, like the runt seeking the warmth of the rest of the litter.

“I could not go into the hall, for I have lost the right to sit by the hearth. I will have to go far away. If I am even allowed to live…”

Alvar walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, forbearing to wince. “You know that I will do what I can. But to take the life of a king…”

“He would have done harm to the queen. I could not let him. I had to stop him.”

“The queen.” Alvar ran back to Alfreda’s manor. “Brihtmær, find my horse and one for Siferth, too. We must get away; the queen must not be washed with Edward’s blood.”

Alfreda watched them ride out. Why would he leave her? Was he not her protector? Three years she’d been a widow, flirting with silly boys just to keep her skills honed, and tonight he had knocked on her door. He had come for her; for one joyous moment she had thought her wait was over. But now the king was dead, killed in her yard, and Alvar was gone. There would be no salvation. She stared out at the brazier. The flames licked and crackled, agitated by an evening breeze blowing across the courtyard, and illuminated the bloodstain on the ground. Edward’s blood. The fire stirred memories of a burning building, and a chance of a new beginning. So many years had passed since then, most of them good ones. But it had all come at a heavy cost, for she had lost three of her four children. Two cruelly kept from her, one taken by God, his little body burning with fever one moment, cold and dead the next. Her son was still convulsing with sobs beside her, and his shuddering body radiated warmth. She clutched him tightly. “Ssh, there, there, it will be all right.” The king was dead, and there would be salvation. Alfreda put her free hand up to tidy her veil, looked down at her last remaining son, the atheling Æthelred, and repeated her words. “It will be all right.”

Calne

In the pallid morning light, tree-wrights were chopping fallen beams and boards, and dragging the smaller pieces to bonfires. Wounded men hobbled around outside the king’s hall and helped where they could. Many more, still torpid with disbelief, remained seated on rescued stools and chairs, and gazed at the wreckage.

Alvar wrinkled his nose at the smoke and put a hand up to bat away the flying embers. He left a listless Siferth in the makeshift infirmary. Outside the lodge for the clergy, he waylaid a monk. “Tell the archbishop that I would speak with him.”

The monk went inside and Dunstan appeared, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. The smile of greeting fell from his face. “The king is not with you?”

Alvar spoke in a voice made gruff by smoke and fatigue. “Lord Archbishop, I would speak with you right away. One to one.”

Dunstan indicated the way with a sweep of his arm. They went inside and past the clergy who were sitting at their breakfast tables. Some ate with enthusiasm; others, faces dirty, looked too shocked to eat well. Dunstan knew he must speak to them soon; one, in particular, had remained mute and hungry since the collapse, and he was no use to God or the injured in that weakened state.

In a private chamber at the rear of the building, Dunstan offered Alvar a cushioned chair and the earl fell into it. He mentioned how warm the room was, commented on the smell of incense and he blinked slowly, as if the pungent air were pushing heavily on his eyelids. Dunstan’s bed was piled with soft furs and gold embroidered covers, pillows and cushions, and Lord Alvar looked, covetously, it seemed to Dunstan, at the feather-soft haven. As always when he travelled, Dunstan had brought with him many wooden caskets decorated with gold. On the table next to Alvar lay a particularly beautiful reliquary and the earl leaned his head on it.

Dunstan tutted, but he shrugged and said, “It will not be the most ungodly thing you have ever done.” He cleared his throat. “Well?  Why have you not brought the king back with you?”

Alvar sat forward. “My lord Archbishop, I have ridden hard miles from Corfe, and in all that time have not found the words to tell you in a kinder way than this: your king is dead.”

Dunstan lost all control of his head. He stopped blinking and his mouth gaped open. His head was shaking; his ears were not working properly.

“No, my lord, it is not a lie. I only wish it were.”

Dunstan regained control of his faculties. He sat down and said, “I will call for food and drink and then you must tell me all.”

He listened, even now not really able to believe, as Alvar told him a tale that was as tragic as it was shocking. When he had dispatched Alvar and his men to bring Edward back, his only concern was that Edward might dirty his own name by frightening or, and it was only a possibility, assaulting the king’s widow. How had it come to pass that Edward was dead, killed at the hand of thegns who loved the queen so much that they would kill and die for her? Was his assessment of Alfreda proved wrong, or right, by this turn of events? He must conclude this meeting rapidly, for he had much to say to God in the privacy of the chapel. He crossed himself, murmured a prayer and said, “What must be done?”

Alvar moved his head from side to side and raised his shoulders as if to ease the ache there and in his neck. “A king has been murdered, and the killing calls for the payment of wergild and a hanging. The king’s kin should hunt down the killers.”

“But if he has no full-grown kin…” If he had no adult kin then the responsibility would fall to someone who acted for the royal family. But the royal family was divided. Who would act for Edward’s side? Brandon? There was no-one, in truth, who could stand against Alvar.

Alvar held up a hand. “The thegn, Siferth, who wielded the blade, is dear to me.”

Dunstan slumped in his chair, accepting the inevitable. Alvar would fight on behalf of Alfreda and her thegn, and none could stop him.

“You should know that I am his lord.”

Dunstan demurred. “I was given to understand that he is Alfreda’s thegn.”

“I made him swear to me. He is my thegn now, and I am bound to protect him.”

Dunstan opened his mouth and shut it again. It was one thing to fight on Siferth’s behalf, but with the ties of lordship came shared responsibility. Alvar had made himself vulnerable, and laid himself open to accusations of collusion in a murder. Why would he make such a sacrifice? He must truly love this thegn, to act so selflessly. Reluctantly, Dunstan acknowledged that the action went deeper than mere love. By moving to make Siferth his thegn, he had negated the need to arrest him. With a legitimate reason not to draw his sword, he was guaranteeing a peace which would only be broken should someone choose to accuse Alvar directly of murder. His reputation might suffer, but the kingdom would be mended. Alvar was putting duty before all personal considerations and, belatedly, it occurred to Dunstan that it was this tendency that had helped to make Alvar so indispensable to Edgar.

He sat back and, though his overriding emotion was sadness, he gave in to the urge for a small chuckle. “Once, I thought you to be no more than a brute with a sword. But now…” He shook his head with only a tiny range of motion as he finished the thought. Edgar had brought Alvar to court because he wished to use his loyalty and his military skills and yet now, the soldier Dunstan had dismissed as unimaginative had found a way to solve this monumental crisis by deliberately, and publicly, sheathing his sword. Loyal yes, but clever too, and Dunstan, his lifelong enemy, found that he welcomed the opportunity to speak to the man as one statesman to another, a part which Dunstan had hitherto been so fond to play as a solo role.

A serving-boy brought a flask of wine. Dunstan offered some to Alvar, who shook his head. “You will not have a drink?” Dunstan took a sip from a gold cup. “What of the athelings?”

“There is none as throne-worthy as Æthelred. The witan would not bind themselves to any other.”

“Then he must be brought to Kingston this day, named king by the witan, and given the king-helm.”

“No.”

The archbishop frowned. “But we cannot linger. This land was being rent asunder even before Edward’s death; we must have a king.”

“We must not be too swift. Otherwise, men will think that this killing was done for Æthelred and in his name. And…”

Dunstan leaned forward. “Yes?”

“It will hurt you to hear this, but there are few men in the witan who will shed any tears for Edward. His slaying might turn out to be the thing that brings us all back together.” He sighed. “There should now be a time of stillness. Let us wait awhile, rebuild this place,” he nodded towards the smouldering courtyard, “And then rebuild the kingdom.”

Dunstan looked up at the ceiling and rubbed his chin. “Do you really think you can keep the blood from Æthelred’s hands, make him king and bring all the lords together?”