Alvar the Kingmaker (32 page)

Now it was time for the oath. Dunstan had searched the scriptures and drawn inspiration from the anointing of Saul and David by Samuel. He had written the oath for Edgar and, although the king would swear it in Latin, Dunstan would ensure that all men who mattered would know the nature of Edgar’s promise: first, that the Church of God and the whole Christian people should have true peace at all time by Edgar’s judgement; second, that he would forbid extortion of all kind and wrongdoing to all orders of men; third, that he would enjoin equity and mercy in all judgements.

He anointed the beloved head with the holy oil, chanted the Latin as he put the crown firmly in place, and led Edgar to his throne. He turned, ready to deliver his sermon. The crowd cheered. The good folk of the English shouted and danced, the boys sang louder and Dunstan stood serene, happy to wait for them to quieten down. While he waited, with his fixed smile, he allowed himself a moment of personal triumph. He had given them a magnificent ceremony; an oath, the anointing, the investiture, and the enthronement. All that remained due was the homage.
Well then, Lord Alvar. Better that, if you can.

Chester

Alvar kept his gaze fixed upon the small boat and said, “If either one of you breathes a word of this, I will feed my hounds with your freshly roasted ballocks.”

Wulfgar, speaking with an audible tightness of tone, said, “Forgive me, my lord, but I do not understand. You have ridden at the head of all the weapon-men of England, leading them the whole way from Bath. They would forgive you for being frightened, would they not?”

Helmstan emitted a strange sound, like a chicken being throttled. In a quavering voice he said, “No, Wulfgar, you have it wrong. Our lord is not frightened, but worried; worried that when he spews he will ruin his fine clothes.” He barely got the final word out before his laughter got the better of him.

Alvar turned and glared at them.

Helmstan wiped his eyes and sniffed. “I am sorry, my lord. I merely wonder what the king will say if his leading earl will not…”

“I did not say I would not get in the boat. I only said that I do not trust it to hold us out of the water.”

Wulfgar cleared his throat. “My lord, all these folk…”

“Yes, yes, I know they have all come here to see. It is easy for you; all you have to do is stand here on the wharf and watch as I sink.”

Wulfgar looked back at the crowd. Despite the long wait, their enthusiasm had not yet waned. He shook his head. “They are still throwing blossom into the road. They have waited all this time to hail the king. Why then is this meeting being held on board ship, where they will not be able to see?”

Alvar muttered to himself. “I have begun to ask myself the same question.” He wrinkled his nose, already feeling nauseous. The idea had made sense at the time when it was first mooted. First, the ceremony at Bath would hark back to the days of the Roman Empire, while the subsequent muster of all Edgar’s weapon-men and their procession north would demonstrate his military strength. Edgar was laying claim to a larger realm, and Bath was the perfect setting. The Roman ruins would stir up memories of the Roman notion of Britannia, but, more pertinently, Bath was one of the burhs built by Alfred and it lay on the border between Wessex and Mercia. The ceremony would provide yet more proof of Edgar’s desire to favour neither one former kingdom nor the other, and ensure that the streets from Bath all the way to Chester were lined with folk who had every reason to support a king who had demonstrated his love for all his peoples. Now the paying of homage on board a ship of Edgar’s fleet would be a potent reminder that he also ruled the sea around his kingdom. Alvar took a deep breath and a last look at his companions. He handed Helmstan his sword. “Speak to God for me.” He leaped into the tiny boat. Wishing that his sins took less time to repent, he spent the short voyage from the estuary to the open sea engaged in negotiation with the Almighty.

The little landing craft glided alongside Guthrum’s clinker-built ship, where the Viking captain waited to welcome Alvar aboard. Alvar ducked his head to avoid a low-swooping gull and tried to steady himself. The smell of salt and ropes and tar was an unfamiliar mixture and he swallowed hard. “How do seafarers ever learn to stride about on these things?”

Guthrum grunted a laugh. “For me, it is dry land that does not move enough. Look merry, for you will be the only one. See, over there on the steerboard side.”

Alvar glanced at the assembled dignitaries, most of them pallid and frowning. “I see what you mean.”

Guthrum bowed before backing away and Alvar stepped forward for the formal greetings. The boat rolled and he lost his footing. He righted himself and looked up. The gulls gleamed silver where the sunshine brushed their wings. As they rose and dived, they called out; he heard their cries as laughter, directed at him.

The king and his councillors were seated behind a raised platform. The small table in front of them was covered with a red cloth worked through with gold thread. The edges of the material flapped in the breeze and only the heavy gold plate and lumps of lead used as paperweights for the charter books stopped it from taking off. Edgar’s expression was unreadable, but next to him Oswald, Brandon, and Dunstan had all fixed their mouths into humourless smiles. Each man puffed his cheeks now and again and with each push of air, patted his stomach.

Alvar was amused. If merely stepping aboard had churned his guts, what had they all suffered, sailing round the coast from the earlier ceremony? “It looks as though the waters from Bristol were somewhat less than smooth?”

They did not reply.

He chuckled, taking a natural pleasure in knowing that however sick he felt, they undoubtedly felt worse. In life, such knowledge was usually as good as a cure.

Months of planning and preparation had led up to this moment. Surely the religious ceremony had been a triumph and doubtless Dunstan would lose little time in telling him all about it, but for now the archbishop would have to sit and suffer the display of martial and diplomatic power. Whilst Dunstan had been writing sermons, choosing his finest vestments and deciding which psalms were to be sung, Alvar had been deep in negotiation with Edgar and the various kings and princes who ruled the surrounding kingdoms and islands. By means of persuasion and not a few open threats, a peace had been brokered and an agreement reached that saw them all gathered this day, ready to do homage to a king whose fleet blocked the estuary and whose fyrd had recently marched the length of the country, showing its might to all who lived in its path. Dunstan might yet feel worse before his nausea subsided.

Alerted by the cries of the young prince Æthelred, Alvar turned to look at the queen, who was sitting next to Bishop Athelwold. The boy squirmed on his mother’s knee, but she kept a tight grip and delivered an alluring smile. God, but the woman was beautiful, even after giving birth to four children, losing two and burying one. Her smile had altered slightly since the early days, showing her pretty teeth, but not reaching to her eyes, so that they remained wide, unaffected by ageing creases.

Alvar smiled back, but sobered in a heartbeat as he nodded his greeting to the Northumbrians, Earl Beorn, and Earl Wulf of Bamburgh, both grim-faced. It seemed to Alvar that Wulf had the harder task, keeping Beorn from killing the man who was standing between them, restrained on either side by their white-knuckled grip. Kenneth of Scotland, captor of Wulf’s son, stared ahead, not in defiance but with the certainty of a gambler who knew the pattern of luck at the gaming boards.

Of the other men waiting to do homage, there was no mistaking the identity of Maccus, Norse king of the Isles, and his brother, Gothfrith, the men who had been attacking the Welsh of Gwynedd. They were both wearing rows of gold arm bands, and round their necks their amulets glinted through their braided hair and beards. The brothers were standing like sailors, their legs apart, planted on the deck.

To their left, but not close enough to exchange snarled insults, stood the Welsh. Alvar greeted Iago of Gwynedd and his nephew Hywel ab Ieuaf, and spoke to them in Welsh, expressing the wish that they might spend enough time in England to allow them to dry out after all the Welsh rain.

Hywel stared at Alvar with black-brown eyes. He said, “I can tell you that this morning the sun was shining, west of Hawarden. I can also tell you that your Welsh is truly bad,” he said in perfect English. He took a step forward. “I would speak with you alone, after.”

Alvar nodded. He bowed to the last of the kings.

This was Domnall of Strathclyde, who looked up, gave a brief nod, and hung his head again. After the blood-feud between the two Scottish kingdoms, Strathclyde was his no more and nominally in the hands of his son. Alvar glanced at Beorn’s Scottish prisoner. Kenneth of Alba, who had taken such advantage of the quarrel, was appraising Domnall as if he were a wolf eyeing up its prey, and Domnall was standing, stooped, with the air of a man already defeated.

Edgar beckoned Alvar and spoke with the language of ceremony. “My lord of Mercia, manifold are the things for which we owe you our heartfelt thanks. You lead all our weapon-men and you even speak Welsh. Now that you are here, it is to Wales that we look first.” He smiled at the Norse brothers. “King Maccus of the Isles; I already knew that you and your brother Gothfrith are skilful seamen, but I can see from your clothes that you are also both rich men.”

Maccus smoothed his moustache and Gothfrith flexed his biceps.

Edgar’s smile vanished and left no trace that it had ever been there. “However, I speak to you as seamen. Look at all the ships in my fleet. I think you are shrewd enough to understand that it would be a shame if you and I had to fight.” He raised his hand. “No, do not answer me yet. King Iago, my Welsh neighbour and friend, I am glad to see you here. Today you have come to swear hold-oath to me, and that means that whenever Gwynedd is in need, you will be able to call upon my help.”

Iago paused only to shoot a look of hatred at his nephew, an action which pricked Alvar’s interest, before he acknowledged Edgar and mumbled a few short sentences in Welsh.

Two gulls craw-crawed overhead; they circled the boat, caught the wind and rose higher into the sky. Edgar shook his head. “I heard only the word
Saesneg
.”

Alvar translated. “King Iago said simply that he understands what you say, my lord, but his English is not good enough for him to answer you other than in Welsh.”

“I thank you once more, Lord Alvar.” Edgar turned back to Maccus and Gothfrith. His voice remained quiet but there was menace in his tone, a sharp blade cutting the air. “So, let us put it all together. You have seen my fleet, and you have heard me say that Iago is a friend who can beckon English help whenever it is needed. Therefore, it would be madness, would it not, for any more of your ships to sail to the shores of Wales, bent on harrying and burning?”

Alvar looked at the brothers and his hand twitched on his empty scabbard, but their arms were no longer folded, hanging now by their sides as they shrugged their recognition of their impotence.

Taking advantage of the momentary silence, King Domnall of Strathclyde stepped forward so quickly that he almost stumbled.

“You are keen, my lord,” Edgar said.

In a low voice, Alvar said to Guthrum, “Keen, yes, but not as a man to a mead-bench.”

“No, indeed,” the Viking said, “More like a thief wishing to have his neck stretched and let the lingering be over.”

Domnall wanted only to submit to Edgar before he turned his back on his life. “I go to Rome,” was all he told them. He bowed and stepped back to the very edge of the ship.

Edgar turned and fixed his gaze on the last of those who had come to swear an oath of loyalty to him. Edgar said, “So now we must address you as King Kenneth, for Domnall has stepped away and bequeathed you his kingdom.”

One corner of Kenneth’s mouth twitched.

“And yet,” Edgar said, “There are things that kings must do, and there are things that kings must not do. You have Earl Wulf’s son, I am told. You must give him back.”

Kenneth shook free from the Northumbrians’ grip and raised his chin. “I have Lothian, too, which also does not belong to me. Will you make me give that back?”

“No.”

His brinkmanship having backfired, the smirk melted from Kenneth’s face.

“My lord, you must.” Beorn pushed forward but Wulf held his arm.

Guthrum leaned in close to Alvar. “Lothian is not within Edgar’s gift, is it?”

Alvar sniffed and concentrated on his breathing, still unaccustomed to the strange smell and gentle motion aboard ship. “Maybe not, but hark at his words now.” Edgar would find a way to twist the situation to his advantage and demonstrate how far his reach extended.

Edgar smiled at Kenneth, but it was merely the baring of teeth, devoid of all warmth. “Before all these witnesses this day, I give you Lothian, for which I know you will give thanks. I know, too, that you will acknowledge that the land south of the Tweed belongs to the ancient kingdom of Bamburgh and, therefore, to England. Thus, you will swear to harry it no more.”

Kenneth looked to his left and right, and breathed in until his chest rose up. He caught Edgar’s gaze and stepped forward and, even as he knelt, he kept eye contact with the king of the English.

Guthrum stared ahead but leaned his head to whisper. “Did I hear that right? Has Edgar given something that was not even his to give?”