Alvar the Kingmaker (6 page)

Athelwold touched her arm. “My dear, is all well?”

She turned to stare at him. “What?”

“You gave a great sigh. Naught is wrong with the bairn, is it?”

“No.” She raised her hand to shield the tell-tale redness of embarrassment. “I was brooding on what has been said. Could there be an uprising, do you think?”

Athelwold said, “It might come to that, yes.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The Fairchild is older than Edgar and already wed. If he and his wife have children, they will be more throne-worthy than Edgar. She is from a royal line; her forefathers were of Alfred’s kin and so their offspring would have higher atheling status than Edgar. He is too young yet to wed, so…” He held his palms up, his point made.

Alfreda remembered how Edgar had mentioned his need for a wife and his threats to steal her away from Elwood.
I take whatever I want
. “Somehow I do not think Edgar will let something like that stand in his way, Abbot.” Elwood was still at the gaming table, so Alfreda decided that she was not needed after all. She took her leave of Athelwold and stepped outside into the warm sunshine.

On days like this she could almost make herself believe that life here was not so bad. The cloudless sky stretched out above her and she wondered where it ended. It had not rained for some weeks and the ground felt comparatively firm under her feet. Looking out through the gateway, she saw that the causeway was sitting clear of the marsh, a sign of how low the water levels had sunk. Even the biting eastern wind had abated. Alfreda took pleasure where she could and decided not to return to the confines of the carding shed. It would still be there on the next rainy day.

Over by the enclosure boundary, Elwood’s youngest brother Brandon was standing with his back against the fence. His hands were tucked into his tunic belt and he was scuffing the ground with his boot, moving his leg from side to side, kicking up showers of dust. Alfreda watched him for a while, puzzled, for Brandon was not normally to be found alone and without a purpose. But then she mouthed a silent, “Ah, I see.” Little Brandon was now a shadow with no solid shape to mimic; he was lost without Edgar. A flicker of pity crossed her heart, but soon dissipated. None of them would be any the better for Edgar’s departure.

Strong fingers gripped her shoulder and she turned to face her husband. “You left the hall. I did not say you could.”

She dropped her gaze and stared at the ground. “I am sorry, my lord. I had thought that you were busy at the gaming board and had no need of me.”

He gripped her arm. “Come, woman, and I will show you what my needs are.”

A butterfly movement in her belly awakened a brave defiance. “The bairn is kicking, my lord, so I would beg you…”

He reached with his free hand to jerk her chin up. “You would do better to beg the Almighty that this child is fair like me. If it should have the Devil’s dark eyes like yours I shall not bear to look upon it, much less name it as my own.”

She had seen many a bitch hound snarl and bite any who came close enough to pet her whelps and now she understood, for she would suffer no threats or insults to be cast at her child. She stared into his eyes, tried hard not to blink and said, “My son will not be throne-worthy but he will be high-born and he will be loved.”

He released her and fanned his fingers up and down in a gesture she recognised as an attempt to fight the urge to make a fist. He made as if to move away, but then he took a step back. “Why did you say that?”

“I said that my child…”

“No, no. About being throne-worthy, what made you say those words?”

She shrugged. “The abbot told me that the Fairchild’s wife can trace her line back to Alfred, so her children will be higher than Edgar in rank. He might have to take Wessex by force or lose it to his brother’s children.”

He closed his mouth, leaving the tip of his tongue visible between his lips. It remained there for a moment as his thought took shape. Then he said, “But what if someone could get Wessex for him, with no blood spilt? What if there were never any children born?” Elwood’s lips pulled back into an alarming snarling smile. “My father was right. It seems that there might, after all, be more than one way to tan a hide.”

Edgar’s Court, London

The woman, Eva, lay propped up on one elbow. Her milk-white hair fell across her face and she peered up at him with only one eye fully visible. “My lord, will you not lie back down? It is cold in here without you.” She parted her lips to smile and ran her tongue across the tips of her upper teeth.

Alvar leaned towards her and put his hand on her cheek. Her skin was as soft as Persian silk and the hair, swept back by his touch, released the gentle fragrance of rosemary. “Your offer is hard to ignore…” He took a deep breath, swung his legs over the side of the bed and picked up his breeches from the floor. “But I am needed at the witan meeting.” He gestured to the window. “Here is the sun, though, so you will soon be warm.”

She pushed her bottom lip forward and settled back on the pillows. As the light from the window penetrated the room she swam her fingers in front of her face and said, “Pretty motes, but not hard enough to hold. It was not a shaft of sunlight I wanted.”

Alvar snorted a laugh, stood up and adjusted his tunic. He blew a kiss over his shoulder, left the bedchamber and took the stairs two at a time.

Elwood of Ramsey turned his head at the thumping descent and his cheeks flushed red.

Alvar placed his hand on the newel-post and leaped over the last three steps, landing close to Elwood. He sought to assure the East Anglian that he was not the subject of the joke. “I was laughing at something Eva said.” Alvar put his hands on his lower back and stretched up, grinning.

Elwood’s mouth shrank into a creased round, drawing wrinkles from his cheeks until his face resembled the tightly pulled rumpled hide around the drawstring of an otter-skin bag. He took a step closer to Alvar and said, “That woman is a whore.”

Alvar’s smile dropped and he sniffed. Half empty ale jugs crowded the side tables, but the lord of Ramsey’s breath smelled clean. The man was sober as a saint.

Elwood’s mouth moved as if his tongue were reacting to some unseen poison. “Bad enough that Edgar should give you one of only two bedrooms, but I thought we had left lewdness behind at his brother’s court?” Elwood stalked off, to pause and admire one of the new wall-hangings.

Helmstan wandered over. “What? Does Ramsey not wish to hear the words of a woman well laid?” He covered his mouth in mock concern and then laughed. “Or is it worse? Was she not well laid?” He slapped Alvar playfully on the shoulder.

But Alvar shook his head. Was it possible that another man could envy him so much simply because he had been given a separate chamber? “I feel as if I am in the shield wall and have stepped forward with the left leg.”

“He has you on the wrong foot? He is a man who rarely smiles, so do not take it to your heart. It may be that he does not care for Eva and her ilk.”

Alvar nodded. “I think that the lord of Ramsey cares for few women.” He turned to face his friend. “Not like you, then, still warm from your wedding bed and grinning. And yet you do not bring your lovely wife to court to meet us. Is she too shy?”

Helmstan nodded. “As it happens, she is indeed shy. She would come if I asked her, but I do not ask. I love her too much to have her suffer your crude manners.”

Alvar feigned indignation. “What do you mean? I know how to speak to a pretty woman.”

“Yes, but only to ask them into the nearest bed. My lady would be hard pressed then, knowing how to say no.”

Alvar grinned. “Most of them struggle to say no, so strongly are they drawn to me.”

Helmstan adopted an expression of mock pity and laid his hand gently on Alvar’s arm. “No, my friend. She would struggle because she knows it is rude to tell an earl to stick his ugly head in a water butt.”

Alvar laughed and thumped Helmstan on the shoulder. He waved his arm in a wide arc. “But, she is missing a treat; look at this wonderful new building.”

Away from the stairwell, only a few men remained in the hall, most of the nobles having moved along to the meeting chamber at the far end of the building. Beyond the open doorway, the tree-wrights in the yard were sawing the freshly coppiced wood, and inside, a carpenter ambled by with an armful of planks. A ladder lay propped against a wall where a small section of daub plaster remained bare, even though several embroidered cloths had already been hung. The carpenter sniffed his disapproval that the lime-wash had not been finished, although he seemed in no hurry to reach his own area of incomplete floorboards. A plump-faced bishop walked through the doorway, his arms folded in front of him, hands hidden in his sleeves. He took short steps so that although he moved forward his robes did not touch his legs, giving him the appearance of floating. Alvar smiled. Dunstan, reinstated not as abbot but elevated to bishop of Worcester, carried himself as if born to the role. “My lord Dunstan, do you fare well this bright morning?” He waited as the newly appointed bishop moved his mouth in preparation.

As he walked, Bishop Dunstan dropped his lower jaw, resting it on the cushioning fold of flesh beneath his chin. His head bobbed forward and his large ears began to redden from the exertion. “It is c-c-colder than I would like…” He worked his mouth again in silence.

Alvar fingered one of the wall-hangings, feeling along the stitching as if keen to know how the thing had been fashioned.

Dunstan drew level with Elwood. “B-but now that I am back I must make do, for I will not g-go over the sea again.” He flashed a glare at Alvar over his shoulder.

Helmstan shook his head. “The stammer gets worse. He had reached Elwood by the time he was able to speak.”

Alvar disagreed. “No, I think he never meant to speak to me. All the time I have been in London, the bishop has snubbed me at every turn, but I do not know why. Come, we should go into the meeting.”

Alvar slid his thumbs through his belt and Helmstan hummed softly as they followed Dunstan and Elwood into the meeting chamber.

Elwood had his hand on the bishop’s shoulder. He glanced back at Alvar and smiled as if he had just made the winning move on the gaming table.

Alvar could not understand the animosity; he did not recall ever challenging Elwood at the gaming board, even symbolically. Elwood raised a hand to wave to his brothers in the chamber, threw one last scowl at Alvar and went to join them. Dunstan turned his head and held Alvar’s gaze for a moment before he glided to his seat next to Edgar.

Helmstan stopped humming and let out a low whistle. “Look at all these fine folk.”

Alvar followed the direction of his stare to the ladies who had flocked with their newly ennobled husbands, and now found places to stand near the windows where the sunlight lit up their rich silk kirtles.

Helmstan said, “My wife would no more feel at home here than if a cow were to be lowered into a snake pit.”

Alvar murmured a vague response, wondering why Helmstan would denigrate his wife by intimating that she would compare unfavourably with these beautiful ladies. Then he looked around the room, thought again about Helmstan’s exact words and realised that it was meant as a compliment, that Helmstan’s wife had better things to do than fawn and flutter and be seen in all the right places. And now, all jokes aside, Alvar’s interest was ignited and he was keen to meet this intriguing woman.

But that would have to wait for another time, and he shifted his gaze from the women to look at the newest arrivals. Edgar had wasted no time in using his East Anglian contacts to good effect, but these Scandinavians were not merchants but mercenaries. The boy was taking his kingship seriously; these men had been imported to build and sail a new fleet, and Alvar could only hope that the new ships would be used in the national interest only, and that the young king had heeded his advice to treat the Northumbrians and Danes with respect.

As well as the elegant ladies and the foreigners, the churchmen also brought colour to the scene with their opulent clothing. The archbishop of Canterbury was an old man who looked as if he had cheated death for a decade or more, but his chasuble was of expensive silk, with gold bordering, and his shoulders were swathed in layers of the finest fur.

Alvar took his leave of Helmstan, who went to sit with his lord the Greybeard of Chester, and made his way to the top table, replying with hand gestures behind his back to the good-natured mocking from the Mercian contingent.

“He cannot remember to shave, but he can find his way to the king’s bench.”

“We are too dull and dreary for him now.”

Alvar, laughing, took his seat next to Edgar and tried to adopt a more serious expression. “Lord King, you wanted to see me?”

The boy-king stared into the middle distance. His clear skin was contoured only where a thin beginning of a line traced its way vertically from his brow to the bridge of his nose. He gestured towards the document on the table in front of him and said, “Your thegns tell me that we must take great care with the wording in this land gift.” He pushed the document towards Alvar. “I have already given this man the turf so I do not see why such care is needed with the writing of it.”

Edgar’s fingers drummed the table, but he kept his head tilted with his ear close to Alvar’s mouth.