Alvar the Kingmaker (41 page)

The other witan members made their way to their places. One said, “I should not be climbing stairs with my old weary legs. Why has Edward brought us here? Can anyone remember the last time a moot was held here?”

His companion said, “It is so dim in here that I can barely see my way to my seat. And it stinks.”

Alvar looked around him. The straw on the floor was clean but not evenly spread. “I do not think the household knew we were coming until yesterday.”

Edwin, the new young earl of Kent, tugged at a warped shutter but it stuck fast. He banged it with his flat palm and swore. “By the holy bloody rood...”

Alvar said, “It is a shame it is so stiff; you look as if you would like to shut someone’s head in it. Tell me; are the Rochester monks still cursing you to hell?”

Edwin walked over to him, bending low to avoid a beam.

Alvar looked at the younger man’s spotty chin, and circled his aching shoulders; the shutter was not the only thing grown stiff with age.

Edwin said, “I was as even-handed as I could be at that hundred-moot last year, but the monks were so sure of my finding in their favour that they were cross when I did not. All of a sudden, I was accused of stealing their land. It was a little unforeseen, to tell you the truth.”

Alvar smiled at the understatement. “You are not the first to come to me with such a tale. I only wish I could say that you will be the last, but that rests with the archbishop and whether he will heed us.”

Edwin grinned. “You have a way of getting men to see things your way…” He closed his mouth and bowed low.

Alvar turned round. Edward shuffled past them, his newly acquired broadness of shoulder dragging his body into a hunch; a puppy trying to control its adult body. In the small room, chairs collided as men scraped them back. When Edwin of Kent sat down, he put his elbows on the table and it rocked on uneven legs. Wulfgar tried to stretch his legs out and only succeeded in kicking Alvar. Alvar said, “Get a window open before we all choke for want of clean air.”

Wulfgar waved to a serving-boy. The lad could not get through the jumbled mass of tables, so Wulfgar pointed to the window and mimed the action.

Dunstan remained on his feet and as the coughs and murmurs subsided, he looked round the room and focused on Alvar. “My lords, I would have all words spoken out loudly this day, not whispered in dark corners.”

Alvar nodded and stood up. “As you ask, so shall it be. Every man here knows my thoughts on the theft of Mercian land and my rights therein, so there is naught new to tell about that. But other men, from beyond Mercia, have come to me seeking redress. Leofric of Ramsey reports how Archbishop Oswald ate and drank like a king there, while outside the abbey, the folk starved. My own thegn, Wulfgar of Munford, has kin from Worcester who were made homeless by the archbishop’s own kin from the east. Thegn Ethelnoth’s lands were taken from him and given to the abbot of Malmesbury these three years gone.” He took a deep breath and swallowed, but the musty air stuck in his throat. He coughed. “I also hear of folk whose land at Taunton was taken from them and given to the bishop of Winchester, and that even though our good queen, the lady Alfreda, spoke on their behalf, they are still homeless and hungry.”

Many shouted their agreement and pointed fingers at Bishop Athelwold but Alvar, always less comfortable attacking the queen’s champion, looked down at a dirty stain on the floorboards and poked it with his foot. He looked up when the clamour subsided and he put out his arms. “These men would have their land back, my lord Archbishop, and they are but a few of those who have been wronged in this way.”

Dunstan cast another glance around the room, as if to assess the mood of the men gathered there, and shot a look of appeal to the silent Edward, who remained seated on the king-stool and picked at his nails.

“My lord Alvar, these are b-but one or two tales. Tales,” he emphasised the word, “Which have not been heard in law. They do not speak for the whole of my lord King’s lands.”

“Oh, I can give you more. A thegn in East Anglia, one Alfric, unable to settle a debt, had his land given to the abbey at Ely.”

Dunstan shook his head. “If I find it hard t-to accept your words as the truth, it is b-because the lord Brandon, who is lord in the lands of which you speak, does not come to me bearing the same tales.”

A shout came up from the back of the hall. “He is too busy taking land for himself.”

Alvar turned, but the heckler remained faceless in the crowd of men who nudged each other.

Dunstan waited for quiet. “All I am saying is that not all the earls are with you in this. We hear nothing from East Anglia, or Essex, or from Northumbria.”

A Northumbrian voice called out. “You saw to it that Earl Beorn is too far away to be heard!” He was applauded with whoops and jeers directed at the figures on the dais.

Again, Dunstan waited for calm.

Edwin of Kent left his seat and went to stand next to Alvar. “You will hear from me, my lord. And I stand with Mercia on this.”

Wulfgar got to his feet. “I, too.”

One by one, thegns from all areas stood up, declared their agreement and went to stand near Alvar. Brihtmær of Chester and Aswy of Shropshire moved to their lord’s side as expected, but Osmund of Suffolk came too. Wedwine of Ramsey left Brandon’s side, and brought his own men with him. Soon, only a handful of men remained in their seats as the witan members stood to join the Mercians in the centre of the room. The malcontents stood in defiant silence and Alvar waited for Dunstan to admit defeat. He looked at the king, who was sitting slumped, with his head forward.

Alvar nudged Wulfgar and pointed. “See how idle Edward is, to sleep while…”

Wulfgar opened his mouth to reply, but then he touched Alvar’s arm. “My lord? Do you hear it?”

Alvar tilted his head to one side and listened to the slow rumble as it grew louder. He looked down at his feet. The rumble gave way to loud creaking, the floor moved, and he put a hand on the table to steady himself. Around him, men turned to each other, shook their heads and frowned. A splintering crack followed the creaking as the middle section of the floor gave way. Alvar saw the realisation on Wulfgar’s face a second before they, and all those who had been standing with them, were hurled with the falling timbers to the floor below. Lengths of oak tables fell through after the hurtling beams and rotten floorboards; chair legs speared men who lay helpless, injured or worse by the fall. They lay, innocent killers of those under them, those who had dropped first and were buried before they died.

The sound of crashing timber subsided and a cloud of plaster-dust rose and fell. In the silence, another sound, an unearthly groan, grew louder, until one final beam broke off and landed on the top of the heap. It came to rest, tottered, and the higher end wavered before, with one last creak, it settled.

Alvar lay still while he waited for the tell-tale pain to manifest itself. When none came, he felt along his arms and as far down his legs as he could reach without sitting up.

“Wulfgar?”

A muffled voice came from below him. “If my lord would shift his arse from my head, I would find answering him less of a hardship.”

The long silence broken, men began trying to move, calling out to friends or crying out in pain. No longer able to hear his friend, Alvar shuffled around and found Wulfgar pinned down under a floorboard. He shoved the wood away from Wulfgar’s chest, sat him up, and held his arm around him until he was happy with his breathing. He helped him up and they scrabbled at the fallen timbers so that they could free others who were still trapped. Rescuers began working from the other end of the lower room and, as he and Wulfgar dug with their hands, Alvar shouted out. “Thegn Wulfgar and I are here; keep coming this way as you can. Delve deep, for many are hidden.”

Above them, Dunstan was the first to stir, and scrambled out onto the only beam which remained intact throughout the length of the broken section of the floor. He peered down at the pile of bodies and splintered wood, and turned his back on the scene.

Wulfgar said, “How swiftly these churchmen run.”

But Dunstan’s voice rang out. “My lord King, Bishops, follow me down the stairs. You, king’s reeve; gather your men and go in to help those who have fallen. You, there; send riders to the abbeys at Bath and Malmesbury. Bring back monks who have knowledge of healing. My lords, I will see you safe down the steps, and then I must go and help in any way that I can.”

Alvar raised an eyebrow. “Who would have thought it?” He spat dust and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and looked around him to see what needed to be done next. The fallen men attempted to get up, and those who were unscathed or only wounded moved away to reveal those who had not been so fortunate, crushed under the weight of timbers and bodies. Alvar and Wulfgar lifted each dead man as soon as the body was freed.

On the other side of the lower chamber, King Edward could be heard berating his clergy. “I look to you to shield me from harm, but I could have been killed here today.”

Dunstan said, “My lord King, you were not killed, but many have been. We must look to those who need our help, and offer up prayers for those who are beyond such earthly cares.”

“No.” It could have been another piece of falling timber, but the subsequent crack sounded more like a hand on a face. “All of my life I have had a man of God telling me what to do. Even when I became king you all told me that you knew best, even after I was a man grown. And now my lords fight as they would never have done in my father’s time. They make it known that they would have that grist-biter Æthelred as their king. All I have so far to show for my kingship is starvation and fighting and roofs falling in.”

Edward’s voice rose higher and the unwilling eavesdroppers lowered their gaze and returned to their search, grabbing at the debris in silence. Alvar kept his head low, listening for moans under the noise of Edward’s screeching.

“This is God’s doom on my witan. They are gutless men who would not know the hue of a dog turd. And speaking of little shits, where is that weak brat and his whore of a mother? Why were they not here to feel God’s wrath… Was this her doing? Did my stepmother mean for me to die here this day?”

Bishop Athelwold spoke now, his elderly voice cracking. “Lord King, the lady Alfreda is at her house at Corfe. She will be greatly saddened by this sorrowful news. She is a good Christian woman and will spend many hours kneeling before the altar, praying for these lost souls.”

“Liar. All through my kingship that bitch has sat and smirked, biding her time until the day her whelp can take my king-seat. Well they will not have it!”

Wulfgar let out a slow whistle. “Surely he will not strike the bishop now?”

But there were no more raised voices. They redoubled their efforts to free those still trapped and to remove the bodies of those who were beyond help.

Alvar took up one end of a beam, Wulfgar the other. “One, two, three, heave.” They hurled the wood to the side of the room and knelt down to pull out Osmund of Suffolk, bloodied, but alive.

Alvar said, “I wondered where you had gone. First you were standing beside me, but then you went away.”

Osmund grinned. “I thought I would go downstairs for a while, my lord, but I was too idle to walk the long way.”

“While you were gone, we let some more light in.” Wulfgar pointed to the hole above them and laughed, but it was a trickle, not the torrent that usually chuckled forth.

Alvar turned to tackle another pile of rubble. “I do not think that there are any bodies underneath, but we should look anyway.”

They clawed at the mass of ruptured timbers and clumps of plaster, until the floor was visible beneath it. Alvar wiped dust, sweat and blood from his face, and stood up to ease the ache in his back. He turned and met Dunstan. He swallowed to find some moisture for his burning throat.

“Lord Archbishop, it looks as if we have met in the middle.”

Dunstan inclined his head. “Sometimes it is the only way.”

Alvar returned his gaze and they both nodded.

“Lord Alvar, do you think you can ride? Our lord King has taken off in a temper and without his thegns. We will d-do what needs to be done here; I need you and your men to fetch Edward back, for he needs to be seen with his folk at such a heart-rending time.”

“Do you know where he was going?”

“He said that he needed to kick out, that his lords were all lying in a heap, and his bishops would all only offer him the other cheek. I think he has gone to Corfe.”

Corfe, Dorset

Alfreda sat back in her chair, put the cup to her lips and sipped the mead, enjoying the sweet warmth as it slid down her throat and heated her belly. In the three years since she had been widowed she had learned to take the time to savour even the tiniest pleasures, otherwise the nights stretched out, and offered only boredom followed by an empty bed. In the days of her marriage to Elwood, she would have welcomed the chance to sleep alone. But she had learned from Edgar first to believe in, and then to use, her allure. With that lesson came the realisation that Alvar appreciated her beauty every bit as much as her husband did. She delighted in the knowledge that both men were keen to have her. Thus she would spend the evening in their company and come bedtime she would be so aroused that it never really mattered that Edgar was not the man of her dreams. It had sweetened the bitterness of the drink she had brewed for herself.