Alvar the Kingmaker (13 page)

Brock said, “He was a good man. Winchester would have made a good archbishop.”

Up on the dais, Edgar lifted a loaf and broke it in two. He tore a chunk off with his teeth, but the piece was too large and he chewed with it sticking out until there was room for him to swallow. Oswald the Dane picked up a small crust, nibbled a little from the outside and put the rest back on his plate. He lifted a lap-cloth and dabbed it unnecessarily around his dry lips. Dunstan batted his hand at a servant who tried to replenish his plate. Yes, Winchester would have made a fine archbishop and Dunstan had much to prove. But it made no sense. Alvar moved the pieces around his mind again but could not put Dunstan into the role of murderer. Once, he had played at the gaming board with his young nephew and neither of them had realised immediately that one of the pieces had fallen on the floor. There came a point when they noticed that the game was incomplete but could not straight away fathom why. Alvar had the same feeling now.

On the other side of the king-seat another two men were now looking at him, but in their case Alvar felt as if he should duck his head to avoid the looks of loathing being fired at him like elvish arrows. Oswald the Dane was talking and pointing as if he needed confirmation of an identity and Elwood of East Anglia scowled as he jerked his head in Alvar’s direction and grumbled into the ear of the Dane.

Brock kicked Alvar’s foot. “Brother, are you still with us, or has your mind wandered for good this time?”

Alvar did not turn, but raised his voice above the giggles of the others and said, “I was wondering who this Dane might really be, who is all at once such a friend to East Anglia.”

Oswald stood up and left the dais.

Brock said, “Why not ask him then? He seems to be coming this way.”

As Oswald walked towards the benches, one leg dragged where the other lifted, causing his head to bob up and down with each step.

Alvar said, “Should I feel like a worm that is about to be picked from the earth, do you think?”

Brock laughed. “I see what you mean; he does walk a little like a bird. But is he a harmless wren or a murderous crow?”

Alvar laughed, but there was something in Brock’s words that made him wonder. There was no time to muse on it, though, because Oswald had arrived in front of them and was standing silently, presumably in expectation of a greeting.

Alvar shrugged, put his feet on the floor and sat up straight. He held his hand out and gestured towards the now vacant bench.

Oswald bowed his head and sat down. He arranged his black robes around him and lifted his sleeves clear of the sticky table-top. “It is time that godliness was brought back to this land.” His voice was as tuneless as the dull strike of a blunt sword.

Alvar, annoyed by the lack of preamble, objected. “Who are you to speak to me thus?  I do not know you.”

Oswald blinked at him. “But I know you. You are the one who has been speaking lewdly to our lord of East Anglia.”

Alvar drummed his fingers on the table. “So that is why Elwood was bleating in your ear.” To Brock he said, “I do not know whether to be wroth, or to laugh.” He turned back to the newcomer. “I spoke light-heartedly about whoring. It was not meant, and it was but one word. The only mystery is why he ran to you with his tale of woe.”

Oswald ignored the slur on his social status. “Whispered words will always find an ear.” He nodded back towards the direction of the dais. “The king listens well and wisely to the words of the archbishop of Canterbury.”

Alvar yawned. “Dunstan can clatter on all day about the Church for all I care. Why should it trouble me?”

The Dane’s staccato voice cut through the end of his sentence. “I will tell you. The Church can give Edgar what you cannot.”

By the hearth, near the sleeping dogs, a drunken Northumbrian balanced a full wine cup on his head, only for a Gloucester thegn to knock it off and into his lap. The two jumped up and began a play-fight. Around them their friends took sides and spurred them on with yells and whoops. The hounds, woken by the commotion, joined in, yelping and leaping between the men and whimpering when they got too close.

The Dane spoke as if there had been no interruption. “You helped Edgar to the throne. But at any time you could leave your king for another. Is that not what you meant when you said that Edgar should need his lords and not owe them?”

“Oh for God’s…”  How could Elwood have been so stupid as to take his words and twist them so? Did he really think that Alvar was planning revolt?

The newcomer continued. “You will be wasting your time and your horses riding to Northumbria. The only way to truly bind men to the kingdom is through a strong Church. Every day, I tell God what needs to be. When the Church owns land, all are true to king and God.”

“You
tell
God?” Alvar rolled his eyes.

Oswald blinked and his eyes narrowed. “Kingship is naught without godliness. The Church needs more land to be strong, in order to make the king strong.”

“And you are the man to do this? You nod your head at me but you are naught. What are you, aside from forgetting who I am and how you should speak to me?”

“I do not forget who you are. You are a proud man; too proud. As for who I am, let me ask you this. Dunstan is now at Canterbury and Worcester is free. Who do you think will be bishop there now?”

Oswald gave his little bob of a nod and stood up. He bowed, not low, and hobbled off.

Brock let out a low whistle. “Do you think, brother, that he was threatening you?”

Alvar took a long drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grunted. “He does not frighten me. He might become bishop of Worcester but those are my lands. I will look after my folk there and as long as he does not get in my way I will not tread on him. At least in a bishop’s garb he will look less like a crow.”

He reached for the ale and laughed at the continuing ribaldry, determined not to let the foreigner’s ill-manners detract from his enjoyment of the evening. But when a severely inebriated thegn produced a gaming board, Alvar’s thoughts began to wander once more. The diocese of Worcester, in the very heart of Mercia, was wealthy and well-endowed. And now, suddenly, it was vacant and a Danish newcomer was about to walk into the bishopric. Oswald had made his way back to the dais and resumed conversation with Elwood and now the pieces sat neatly on the board. A huge wave had been called forth to wash away all vestiges of the Fairchild’s reign, and when it receded, Dunstan was left sitting on the throne at Canterbury, while Oswald, great friend of East Anglia, was hobbling his way to Worcester and Elwood… Alvar thought back to the murderous looks he had received when Edgar had confirmed him leading earl. Elwood’s ambition had not yet been realised. Little wonder then that the man’s face looked as though he had been hit by the flat of a tree-wright’s axe. He was the only one who had not profited from the deaths of two men; but Oswald had revealed himself as evil, and if Dunstan was not complicit, then at the very least he was a steaming hypocrite. And never again would Alvar apologise for doing his duty to his king.

Dunstan was keen to get back to civilisation and make a start at his archbishopric. The lord of Mercia was a relic of a barbarous age and had no sense that these would be years of peace, of laws and learning and religious reform. Reform, in particular. Dunstan was a besom, twitching to sweep into all the corners of the old regime at Canterbury. He still offered up daily thanks that God had seen fit to clear the path for him. He also felt guilty daily for the sin of pride he’d experienced when Winchester was appointed. He had been suffused with gratitude when Edgar overrode the decision and then he suffered guilt once more, for it felt as though he were profiting from Winchester’s unfortunate accident. The urge to get to Canterbury and prove himself worthy was overwhelming, but Edgar had insisted on some hunting before he left the fertile Severn valley and Dunstan shivered astride his horse, and could for now only dream of his new church and all that his being there would allow him to achieve. He had long harboured an ambition that monks from his old abbey at Glastonbury would build and colonise new monasteries,
proper
monasteries; the religious communities clustered around the shrines and resting places of saints did not adhere to the rule of St Benedict and had never, in Dunstan’s opinion, constituted monastic institutions. Monks trained in his new houses would provide a pool in which to fish for all future bishops, all known to him and eminently suitable for the posts. He shook his head. The more he thought about his plans, the more it irked him to be stuck in this freezing field.

If Dunstan felt uncomfortable, Oswald looked even worse. Black robes flapping out behind him did not mask the shivering. The October sky was cloudless and the sun shone brightly, but the overnight ground frost had lingered and it was a bitter wind that blew. Dunstan knew that he was a rarity; a lord who disliked hunting, but he was keen to leave Mercia as soon as he could. It was time to move on, not to stay where memories of the recently departed king still cast shadows. Why had the Fairchild even been here? It could not have been at Edgar’s invitation, for Edgar had not mentioned it to Dunstan, who was, after all, supposed to be his foremost adviser. He looked across at Alvar, sitting upright with a hawk on his arm. Yes, he, Dunstan,
was
the foremost advisor, despite what others might think. Dunstan was aware of the rumours that were now circulating. The Fairchild died in Alvar’s province. Dunstan had condemned Alvar many a long year ago as a reveller, fornicator and worse, but there the list of crimes ended. He was no murderer. So why had the Fairchild been lured to Mercia, and by whom; had the sole intention been to besmirch Alvar’s name?

Edgar’s hawk had caught a sparrow and brought it back. A thegn brought down yet another with his bow and arrow and, since his girdle now had six dead birds hanging from it, he added this latest to Edgar’s stack. Dunstan experienced a bilious taste in his mouth and he turned his head from the pile of feathered corpses. He was relieved that what he saw as too large a pile of bodies was deemed to be just enough for the rest of the hunting party and when the shout went up that it was time to retire to the hut, he welcomed the chance to dismount and  have a warming drink.

He settled himself by the fire and allowed the young thegns to fuss round him, as they laid a fur blanket over his lap and ensured that food and drink were left on a table close to where he was sitting. Edgar, slapping friends on the shoulder, sharing a joke with others, gradually made his way to join Dunstan by the hearth. After a few solicitous enquiries after the archbishop’s health, the young man coughed and tried to settle his voice into its newly acquired lower register.

“There is a young woman who has caught my eye but I need your help.”

Dunstan shifted in his seat. In what possible way could he be of assistance in the procuring of a woman? He lifted his cup to his lips.

Edgar continued. “You know of the lady Wulfreda?”

Dunstan forced the sip of liquid back into the cup, fearful that if he swallowed, he might choke. “That lady is given to the Church. She is not for you.”

Oswald came to join them, carefully spreading out his robes before sitting, hands neatly placed in his lap. Edgar acknowledged him with a nod, but continued to press Dunstan. “She is high-born, though is she not?”

“Yes, my lord, she is. But…”

Oswald leaned forward. “Of whom do we speak?”

Dunstan explained that Edgar had taken a fancy to the lady Wulfreda, but that she was promised to the Church and might very soon take her vows.

Oswald nodded. “High-born, though, you say?”

“The highest. She is, indeed, throne-worthy. Her mother and father were…”

Oswald laid a hand on his arm and repeated the phrase. “Throne-worthy, you say? A waste, then, maybe, to give her life to the Church. Whilst we would always welcome those few chaste women who will give their lives to God, there might be a better way in which she could serve Him.”

Dunstan opened his mouth to reply, but found he stumbled over the sound he wanted to make. Unable for now to formulate the words to tell Edgar to proceed with caution and subtlety, he merely nodded his assent.

Edgar squeezed him on the knee before he stood up, nodded to Oswald, and turned back to his younger friends.

Oswald smiled. “We must do whatever we can to free this lady from her vows. Edgar is the son of a king. If his wife were throne-worthy, too, then their children would be, hmm, what is the word?”

Undisputed? Legitimate? Sinfully begotten? Dunstan remained tight-lipped. Not just because the words wouldn’t come but because the nasty taste was back.

Oswald seemed unperturbed by the archbishop’s silence. He sat back and put his hands precisely in the centre of his lap. “Whilst we are speaking of giving boons, I would beg one of you. I would like a ship-soke in Mercia.”

Of course he would. The land here was fertile and all the churches very rich. A ship-soke consisting of three hundred hides of land would yield a fortune. But it was not within Dunstan’s power to grant such a request. He shook his head. “I-it is not for me to say. You would need to ask the king.”

Oswald scratched his chin. “I had thought of this. I think that if the king were to get the lady whom he craves, then he might be grateful. The king must always be grateful for what is done in his name by those who love him.”