Alvar the Kingmaker (12 page)

His guest shuffled to a cushioned chair and spread his black robes out as he sat down. He said, “When I buried my kinsman the archbishop, I had hoped the bitter brew would be sweetened by knowing that you would succeed him. It seems that the Fairchild has thwarted you once more.”

Dunstan smiled ruefully. “Indeed. First he sends me overseas and now he sends the bishop of Winchester, not in exile, but to receive the pope’s blessing as the new archbishop.” He shook his head, still puzzling. Had he not served, prayed, answered his calling? Was the Fairchild sent by God to test him?

“Edgar would have chosen you.”

“Alas, the thing was done too swiftly. I think that the bishop has powerful friends who were standing by with an armed escort and a ship waiting in port.”

“The Lord Alvar is a friend of this bishop of Winchester, is he not?”

Dunstan’s arms tensed at the mention of the name, and a twinge pinched the top of his shoulders. “I had not heard that he was there when Winchester sailed.”

His friend smiled. “Maybe he was. Maybe he was not. But your life would be simpler, would it not, if there was no Lord Alvar and no Fairchild?”

Dunstan chuckled, despite his despondency. “Ah, yes. But where is the man who can do what God so far has not seen fit to do? Now, dearest friend, let us put our heads to thinking how we might find you a church now that you are here to stay.”

“Oh, yes. There is much to plan.”

Ramsey, East Anglia 

Alfreda looked at the house-guest and tried to suppress an involuntary shudder, hoping that her revulsion would not harm her unborn babe, a brother or sister for little Leofric. The visitor had surely sprung from some nightmare, made real by devilry. He was a tall man who leaned forward, exaggerating the curvature of his neck and shoulders. His pale blue eyes shot glances around the room that seemed as sharp as any arrow point. When he moved, it was with a limp, one leg dragging slightly behind the other. Her mother, making up fireside stories for her when she was a child, could not have conjured up so hideous a being to scare the children gathered around the hearth on a winter’s evening. Alfreda hugged her arms across her body, wishing she could reach back into that childhood and snatch a moment of its warmth. In the Half-king’s day, the house at Ramsey had been filled with faces that, if they were not friendly, were at least not openly hostile. Now the Half-king was cloistered at Glastonbury, Edgar had gone and his former tutor the kindly Abbot Athelwold with him, and all those around her were pinched-faced and sour-looking, with one exception. Brandon would only have to put his tongue out to look like the puppy he resembled, and perhaps his tongue should indeed go out, the better to lap up every word the newcomer uttered. For Brandon followed the tall man at every turn, little hand gestures suggesting that he would touch the stranger’s garments if he would let him.

She knew that the man’s name was Oswald, that he was a Dane, that he was studying reforms at a monastery in Frankia, and that he was related to the late archbishop of Canterbury and had come back to England when he heard of the archbishop’s death. He had already been to York to try his luck for a position there, since he had family connections there too, and she stared at this strange and fearsome creature and wondered why such a well-connected person should be so interested in a backwater like the fenland. He was an odd choice to replace Edgar as an idol. Apparently Brandon had met Oswald at a funeral of a nobleman and brought him back to Ramsey, where Elwood had promptly appropriated him. She watched and listened, trying to understand exactly what she was witnessing.

Oswald said, “I hear what you say, Lord Elwood. But we need to hasten our work so that all religious houses follow the rules of St Benedict.”

“Dunstan and Athelwold are doing what they can…” Elwood explained to Oswald how much the other churchmen had been influencing Edgar, persuading him of the benefits that the reforms would bring, to England, and to his place in heaven. Alfreda nodded, inwardly agreeing, for she had sat many a long hour and heard Athelwold’s plans for a new Church. But this man Oswald was pushing for more. He got up and began to walk a few steps, first away from Elwood, then towards him.

“I need a church of my own. Better still, a bishopric. And then it will all be done more swiftly. Left to Athelwold and Dunstan, good men though they are, it will take forever.”

“Winchester is free,” Elwood said, wincing as if he knew the offer to be as welcome as a mouldy piece of flatbread on a feast night.

Oswald’s blue eyes narrowed. “Yes, Winchester is free, because the bishop of that place has moved on. And yet he is still in the way, for in moving on, he blocks Dunstan’s path to Canterbury. And who put him there?”

“The Fairchild.”

“Yes. So everywhere we godly men turn, there is an ungodly one standing in our way. What we need is Edgar on the throne of both the English kingdoms, and Dunstan on the throne at Canterbury.”

“We have begun work on that. Edgar will be king after his brother, now that his brother has no wife.”

Oswald stopped pacing and put his head to one side, staring at Elwood. “There is a flaw in your work. We have seen that the annulment has not subdued the Fairchild; he could take it upon himself to wed again. This must not happen.”

“No, we all hope that it does not, but without an uprising…”

Oswald held up a hand, demanding silence. “There must be no uprising. Better that Edgar is grateful to us than to the weapon-men, for then he will give us what we need. Once before, there were two kings, one of Wessex and one of Mercia, and did not one die soon after taking the king-helm? Who knows what can happen, without warning?” He looked up at the roof and cupped his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “So, we must think how best we can be of use to Edgar.”

Elwood grunted. “I can answer that one straight away. Get rid of Alvar of Mercia.”

The Dane raised an eyebrow. “He vexes you, too?”

Elwood’s mouth was already open in reply and his wife knew that he had no need to rehearse this well-worn speech. “I grew up with Edgar and have always been loyal to him, even though I lost my father’s love to him. It was my idea to wrest the Fairchild from his wife, but somehow it was Alvar who was rewarded. The Fairchild gave my father’s lands to Alvar and yet Edgar has not returned them to me, not even as payment for getting rid of the Fairchild’s wife. Every time I try to get nearer to Edgar, Alvar is standing in my way.”

Oswald laid a calming hand on Elwood’s shoulder. “This upsets me. Lord Elwood, you have given me a home and shown me naught but kindness since I came to England, bereft at the death of my kin. I think that there is a way we can spear two boars with one thrust.” He led the younger man to the mead-bench and bade him sit down. Alfreda leaned to her left and strained to listen.

Oswald continued. “If Dunstan left Worcester, his church there would be empty. And where is Worcester?”

Elwood shrugged. “In Mercia.” He registered no interest, clicking his fingers for a servant to come forward and pour his guest a drink.

The Dane accepted a cup of wine, but Elwood put his hand over the rim of his own cup and Alfreda’s heart began to hammer. She would pay for that abstinence later.

Oswald spoke again. “Worcester is in Mercia, yes. And if I were to become bishop there, I could be of great help; to Edgar, to the Church, and to you.”

“Me?”

The Dane licked his lips. “Edgar loves Alvar. He thinks he needs a strong weapon-man by his side. Oh, but these warmongers have a blood-lust that can do more harm than good. If Edgar were to see…” He lowered his voice, presumably to plot the downfall of the lord of Mercia, and Alfreda could hear no more without picking up her chair and moving it nearer. She would not do it; her eavesdropping must remain unnoticed, or she would be forced to cease the practice.

Brandon had no such qualms. Having spent the duration of the previous conversation staring mournfully while his elder brother monopolised his new friend, he dragged a stool from the hearth, squeezing as close as he could to Oswald and staring at him, even when it was Elwood’s turn to speak.

Alfreda rested her hands on her belly, hoping to feel another of the tiny flutters that proved the existence of the new life within. Her love for this babe, whom she had yet to meet, was natural and instinctive; could hatred be the same? Oswald was newly arrived in England, but already his loathing for the lord Alvar was strong enough to drive him into dark corners where secrets were born. Her husband called her stupid, but she could foresee naught but strife ahead.

Chapter Four AD 959

Gloucestershire

Wilfrid yawned, stretched, and scratched as he made his way to the bake-house. An earlier start than usual saw him stumble into the gloomy building before the sun was fully up, but his widely gaping mouth was not a result of the awakening but a consequence of barely having slept at all. Joyous with pride, yet earnest in his determination not to disappoint, he pushed up his sleeves and lit the fire under the bread oven and shut the door. Later, when it had burned out, he would clean the ashes out and put the bread in to bake. Meanwhile he began to gather what he needed for the new day’s loaves, including the sour-dough reserved from the day before. An hour or so later, Herolf came in, rubbing his hands against the cool October dawn, and whistling. He stopped, his mouth still pursed in its circle, and stared at Wilfrid. Then he said, “Why are you here so early?”

Wilfrid stood back from the table and brushed his floury hands on his tunic. “I have made a start on all the extra loaves that will be needed today.”

Herolf moved towards the bench to inspect the dough. “Why do we need more than usual today?”

“Because the king is coming.”

“King Edgar is coming here?” Herolf began a dance of panic, poking the proving dough to make sure it was beginning to rise, and tidying the utensils on the table into unnecessarily neat groups.

“No, the Fairchild. He is coming from Wessex.”

Herolf released his grip on a sack of flour and laughed. “The Fairchild? Have you gone daft? Why in God’s holy name would he come here?”

Wilfrid pouted and muttered, “There you go, disbelieving me as usual.” He shrugged. “Lord Alvar must’ve invited him. One of the Fairchild’s men rode in last night and told me to make ready.”

Despite Wilfrid’s truculent insistence, Herolf said, “You must be mistaken. The steward said nothing to me. Come, let’s make a start on the…”

The sound of hoof beats turned his attention to the door and he went to stand in the opening. Wilfrid stood behind him, peering over his shoulder. “What is it?”

Herolf folded his arms. “It’s Lord Alvar. But see, you must be mistaken about the Fairchild coming because the lord is riding out.”

Wilfrid craned to see. Sure enough, Lord Alvar was riding away from the manor with, it seemed, all his men at arms. One rider peeled away from the formation after they rode through the gate, presumably, Wilfrid thought, to rally more men from the surrounding villages.

The bakers returned to their work with grudging co-operation, one grumbling about the wasted dough, one stubbornly insisting that the additional loaves would be required. By mid-morning the heat had become oppressive and they stepped outside for a rest. Wilfrid went first and Herolf followed him through the doorway and handed him one of the two drinks he had brought with him. Wilfrid took a few gulps and then wiped his hand across his mouth. “You will owe me another of those. Look.”

Emerging from a haze of kicked dust, a group of riders was approaching the gateway, the banner of the Fairchild of Wessex flapping, proclaiming their identity. The Fairchild himself rode at the front of the pack, his pale blond hair making him easily distinguishable. Just before he reached the gate, however, a rider appeared from the village road, blocking his path and causing the entourage to come to a halt. Words were exchanged and then, as Wilfrid and Herolf watched, the Fairchild turned his horse and followed the rider down the track away from the manor house.

Herolf patted Wilfrid on the shoulder. “Looks like you were right; Lord Alvar must’ve bidden him here, though I cannot think why. And why has he ridden off?” He drained his cup. “Ah well, best get back to our kneading.”               

Among the men who had stood in the church at Gloucester that morning, many were old enough to have witnessed four king-makings. Alvar doubted that they had ever seen one conducted so hurriedly. Even now, the bells were ringing softly. When a man was crowned king, there should be no hiding in shadows. The Fairchild of Wessex was dead and buried and only nineteen years of his life lived. Most folk said he should have cooled his grave a little more before Edgar took the king-helm to wear on his own head, and when Alvar had spoken to Edgar he was of the same mind. But between then and now, Edgar had been persuaded by persons as yet unknown, although Alvar had his suspicions, that a hasty coronation would remove any danger of civil unrest and Edgar had allowed Dunstan to place the crown on his head, but without ceremony. Dunstan, who was no longer bishop of Worcester, but was now the new archbishop of Canterbury, and had used his new powers to bar the Fairchild’s grieving widow from his funeral.

Alvar tried to shift his weight without wriggling. Edgar’s first act as king was to call him up before all others, to swear his oath as foremost earl of the realm and, standing to receive Edgar’s kiss, Alvar saw Elwood’s face, creased into such a frown it seemed his eyes might be lost forever. Alvar could not shake loose from his head two nagging thoughts: a seemingly fit and healthy nineteen-year-old king lay dead, and the bishop of Winchester, so recently appointed to Canterbury, was conveniently dead before he could receive his pallium from the pope. Elwood, an opponent of both the Fairchild and Winchester, should have been happy at the turn of events but he looked thwarted, as if his plans had gone awry.

As to what those plans might have been, Alvar could only guess, ruminating as he watched the other lords stepping forward to receive Edgar’s gifts. Why had the Fairchild been in Gloucestershire at the time of his death? Alvar’s baker was adamant that he had been ordered to prepare food for a royal visit, while his steward was unwavering in his assertion that no such directive had ever been received. The message had never reached Alvar, but someone had gone to the trouble of informing the baker so that Alvar’s claim of ignorance would seem spurious. A rumour then swiftly followed that the Fairchild had come at Alvar’s invitation. Many gave credence to this assertion, questioning why Edgar’s sworn man would invite a king of Wessex into the heart of Mercia. It seemed that they had their answer when the Fairchild was found dead, having apparently fallen from his horse. But any fingers pointing suspicion at Alvar soon had to cease their wagging, because Alvar was not in Gloucestershire at the time. And those who maintained that he contrived to take himself from the scene of the crime and leave his men to do the foul deed were silenced by the facts: Alvar was clever, perhaps, but not so clever that he could have arranged for the Welsh to begin an attack on Shrewsbury at the very same moment. And, having ridden home with the smell of battle in his nostrils, he now had a foul taste in his mouth. Elwood might well have expected to become chief earl by contriving to have Alvar executed for murder, but he did not need to murder the bishop as well. No, this was a far deeper and murkier sea of intrigue, and the ambitions of more than one man had been set to sail upon it.

Moving from the chapel to the timber building alongside it, Alvar blew on his hands and stood aside to allow his brother Brock to enter the hall. Alvar stepped inside and stamped his feet. After the stone floor of the chapel he was grateful for the familiar springy luxury of the wooden floorboards. Looking around, he noted with satisfaction that the hall was bedecked in the finest manner. This hall was the king’s, but it lay in the heart of Mercia, within Alvar’s area of authority. Gold and silver plate had already been laid on the tables, the candles in the gold candlesticks were newly lit and the bread baskets were stacked full almost to overflowing. Alvar nodded at the steward and smiled his approval. He took a jug of wine from a serving-boy, waved him away and filled two cups on the table. He handed one of the drinks to Brock. “However it was done, I think we now have a king who is worthy of the name.”

Brock murmured an agreement and then looked at Alvar as if hearing a second time. “However it was done? What? You cannot believe that the archbishop...”

Alvar looked behind him and set the jug down on a side table. “Ah yes, the new archbishop; what are we to think of him? How much did Dunstan mourn the poor bishop of Winchester before he made a nest for himself at Canterbury?”

“Now brother, be fair. None can be held answerable for Winchester’s untimely death.” Brock sipped his drink. A group of thegns passed by on their way to the mead-benches and he held his cup high to avoid spilling the contents. He said, “Who could have known that the weather would take the man’s life like that as he rode to seek his blessing from the pope?”

Alvar moved the gaming pieces around in his mind. “If that is truly what happened. Many things could befall a man who is far from home and far from friends.” He shook his head. He would move those pieces around again at a later stage. He smiled. “It was kind of you to take Winchester’s child as your foster-son.” Alvar picked up the wine and gestured with the jug, but Brock shook his head. Alvar refilled his own cup.

Brock shrugged the compliment off. “Any man would do this for a friend.”

“I cannot see that I would ever find it within me to take on another man’s son.” The diners began to take their seats and the noise subsided. Alvar straightened up. He waved the jug again. “Another? No?” He filled his own cup and said, “And you are not merely
any
man. The Fairchild’s steward becomes earl of Hampshire and thus Edgar has mended the rift with Wessex.”

“Indeed he has. And he has shown how much he values our kin.” Brock chuckled; his head went back and the light from the fire showed flecks of yellow in his grey stripe. He touched his new arm ring, placed there as he knelt to receive the earldom of Hampshire. “Do you see who else Edgar keeps near to him?”

Alvar turned. He mouthed as he counted the men who surrounded the king. “I have never seen so many bishops, abbots, monks and priests outside a church. Who is the one sitting next to Dunstan who looks like a dried up old stick?”

Brock turned to the wall and Alvar leaned in to hear his words. “That is Oswald, a Dane from East Anglia and nephew to the old archbishop. He has been in Frankia for some years, where he took the monk’s oath. When he sailed home to find that his uncle had died, he took himself off to the archbishop at York, another of his kinsmen.”

Alvar sniffed. “So why is he here and not in York?”

Brock said, “He met Elwood’s little brother, who took him back to Ramsey. From there he had a path straight to the king.”

The Dane, alone among the gathering on the dais, looked straight ahead and did not converse with his neighbours. He was probably a tall man, but his back was hunched. His black garb hung off the narrow slope of his shoulders and his small blue eyes flashed rapid blinks as he stared out into the hall. Something caught his attention and he put his head to one side. The darting gaze stilled and he righted his head to blink at the middle distance.

Alvar wrinkled his nose. “And Edgar will have a straight path to heaven, with all those priests speaking to God on his behalf.”

Brock nodded. “And, since churchmen are now forbidden to wed, they will not be like trees; they will not sow their seed. If you recall, it was the Fairchild who first allowed men to bequeath earldoms to their sons. Edgar looks as though he seeks to offset the strength of the earls by giving the churchmen as many seats on the bench.”

Alvar cocked his head. “You might be right.” Although with relatives scattered throughout the Church, it looked as if Oswald had his own deep-rooted kinship. Alvar’s tongue moved slowly across his top lip as he surveyed the group huddled around Edgar. He smiled. If the lad had learned to keep a balance, then he was learning well. He would not take it to heart if Edgar sought to lean less heavily on the old kinships, for at least he was learning where the Fairchild had not. “I would rather have my place at Edgar’s side through merit and not mere kinship. But, having won Mercia for him, I wonder why then does Edgar still keep me near?”

Edgar stood up and walked towards them. Brock patted his younger brother on the arm. “I think, humble youngster, that you are about to find out.” He stepped aside, nodding to the king.

Edgar reached up to rest his hand on Alvar’s shoulder, propelling him with minimal pressure to the far end of the hall, where shadows aided inconspicuousness.

“Lord Alvar, before we eat, I would like to hear your thoughts on something which has been troubling me. In a word: Northumbria. They did not oppose my kingship but how do I keep them loyal?” He jerked his head in a nod towards the dais. “My learned priests have no answer other than to build more churches. I will pay my foreign boatmen to ensure that the Northumbrians are not tempted to welcome any more Vikings to their remote shores. But I am not dim-witted enough to think that fear will keep them loyal. The fleet might be my eye in the north, but I need more.”

Alvar scratched his ear. They would certainly need to tread carefully. Many who lived in Northumbria had Danish blood in their veins; they spoke another language and did not think of themselves yet as English. He said, “It is only in living memory that the Viking king was driven from York and the two Northumbrian kingdoms were brought back together. If we could build upon this, if the two halves of Northumbria could be made to feel whole, and be made to feel English… Aside from sending a fleet to threaten, you must send a hand in friendship. What if I were to go there, make what friends I can amongst those who will matter, and speak on your behalf?”

The king nodded. “I should like that; leave as soon as you can.”

Elwood of East Anglia had been watching them as they huddled in the shadows and now he made his way over to the end of the hall, his brows drawn together in an expression of indignant curiosity. Alvar’s inner child rose up and he struggled to refrain from asking Edgar why he kept such a sour-lipped lump-head in his inner circle. Instead he said, “He is rich beyond reckoning, he is foster-brother to the king of the English and yet he scowls. What is it then; does his wife look like a shovel?”

“No, she does not.” Edgar steered Alvar back towards the centre of the hall, so that they approached Elwood as he came towards them. The king lifted his lips in a rare smile. “Lady Alfreda is comely indeed.” He saved his next comment until they reached Elwood. “And I have told my foster-brother many times that one day I shall have her off him.”

The lord of Ramsey clenched his fists, but his arms hung impotently at his sides. His lip curled in a sneer. “I hear that you have not yet taken a wife, Alvar?”

Alvar hiccupped. “Never found a woman I wished to keep,” he said. He looked down and made a study of the dried herbs and straw covering the floorboards. He felt a squeeze on his arm, announcing Edgar’s departure. When he looked up, the East Anglian was smirking at him. The lie had not convinced.

Elwood said, “Those who make the loudest din oft-times shout louder than they need to. Some might say Lord Alvar wishes to hide the truth, which is that no woman will have him.”

Alvar swept his arms wide and let them fall in an act of feigned indifference. “You have it, my lord. The truth is that I while away too many days drinking and whoring to find me a wife.”

Elwood took a step nearer and his mouth stretched into a snarl. “You besmirch the good name of your kin. It is a wonder to me why Edgar keeps you so near to his side. You are a drunken halfwit.”

Alvar said. “No, I am merely half drunk. So is almost every other man in this hall; what is wrong with that? At least I do not fear to be in my cups, for what kind of a lord will not share the drinking horn with his men? As to my being a halfwit…” He held the next words back, letting his anger rise up from his belly. For three years he had endured this man’s disdain, nay odium, with never an explanation offered. If his crime was nothing more than his long ago severed connection to the Fairchild, well, had he not proved subsequently his loyalty to Edgar? And had Edgar not charged him with a diplomatic mission? Perhaps it was time to stop doubting his abilities. And to give credence to the growing suspicion that Elwood was driven purely by envy. “You can rest easy, knowing that Edgar is all yours for a time, for he has asked me to go to Northumbria on his behalf.” He echoed Elwood’s movement, and stepped closer. “You see, Edgar owes you, but he needs me.”

Alvar was sitting next to his brother, with the Greybeard of Chester and a group of lesser thegns, who, when they were not pouring drinks for their lords, were firing playful punches at each other. Alvar hoisted his legs up on a bench, one foot crossed over the other. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and slopped ale and he laughed along with the others as an ale-soaked napkin flew across the table and landed on the head of a Worcester thegn. Alvar took a sip from his cup and put his free hand up to the back of his neck. He shivered and rubbed his fingers across the gap between his hair and the neckline of his tunic. He turned his head a little. Edgar and Dunstan, still seated on the dais, were staring at him. Edgar’s head was tilted forward while Dunstan whispered with the side of his mouth. Edgar nodded once or twice, but more often cocked his head one way and then the other, as if unsure whether he agreed with what Dunstan said. Alvar held out his cup as a serving-girl walked by with a flask of wine. “I will have a drink before you take that to the ladies,” he said. “No, better yet, leave us the flask.” He filled Brock’s cup and said, “Come, let us drink to the Fairchild, that he might lie still in his grave, and then to the memory of Winchester.” Alvar chinked his cup against his brother’s, they drank the toast to the Fairchild, and Alvar poured another drink for them both.