Alvar the Kingmaker (7 page)

But if Edgar was keen to listen to anything that might increase his knowledge, Dunstan was impatient to get to other business. “Lord King, it is a small thing and is best left to the scribes to deal with.”

Alvar felt a dull tarnish finally settle on the sheen of his good mood, so expertly buffed to gleaming by Eva’s attentions. The bishop seemed determined to contradict his every word, but Alvar knew that Helmstan would never forgive him if he did not at least set the cleric straight on this one subject.

He said, “To men of Wessex, all other land is
the north
, a great swathe of land where kings have seldom ridden. But those beyond Wessex do not think themselves as one lump. The Danes, to name but one folk, are well settled but they are, even so, Danish. In Mercia, most men do not think themselves to be English, but dwellers in an old kingdom that in days gone by made its own laws and named its own kings.”

Dunstan grunted and said in a quiet voice, “They would do better to help us in our aim to bring holiness back to this land.”

Alvar ignored him and leaned forward, the better to direct his words to the young king. “The land in Herefordshire which you gifted to my thegn is in the land of an ancient tribe, a proud folk who have lived in this land since the Angles and Saxons first came over the sea. If you are seen to allow the ancient land-edges and the old-rights therein, then your folk will love you well.” He handed the vellum back to the king.

Edgar said, “You are knowledgeable indeed, my lord Alvar. I am grateful.”

Dunstan made a strange spluttering noise.

Edgar stared again at the writing and handed it back to his scribe. “That will do well; you may write the rest now.”

The scribe bowed and backed away.

Alvar sat back and breathed in the clean smell of new timber. He was aware of Dunstan’s glower, but kept him in his periphery and refused to turn his head to meet the hot stare.

Edgar said, “Wine, lord Bishop?” He clicked his fingers.

Now Alvar looked across and it was clear from the dismissive wave of the hands that Dunstan was keen to get started.

“We have pressing business.”

The two exchanged glances. Alvar watched them, unsure how to read their expressions. He tried to remember the nature of the day’s business and assumed that his memory of it had been washed away by the ale that Eva had served him all the previous evening. Again he wondered how he had got to this place, he who had never paid attention in witan meetings and was now expected to add his voice to weighty decisions. He still felt like a fraud. Even here in London, away from his brother Brock and wearing his own shoes, he was unsure of his footing. On the battlefield, he knew where to place each step, to keep his balance as he wielded his weapons, but this was new, requiring not a sharp spear point but a sharp mind, and it seemed a long journey from the training yard to the inner circle of government. Dunstan stood up and Alvar sat forward, ready to listen.

Bishop Dunstan cleared his throat and the chattering subsided. “My lords,” he raised his sleeve to wipe away spittle, “It is the wish of our b-b-beloved archbishop of Canterbury that I speak for him about something which has lain heavy on our hearts and minds.”

Alvar looked with all the others to the seat by the hearth. The archbishop gripped his fur cloak around his shrunken frame like a second skin. His head, bald except for the tufts of hair which grew seemingly from his ears, hung forward as if it really were too heavy for his neck to bear the weight. His eyes gleamed vital, but cold.

Dunstan said, “It grieves us that the king in Wessex, the Fairchild, is living sinfully with a wife to whom his kinship is too near. Therefore we have sent to his Holiness, the pope, to have the match undone.”

“What?” Alvar gripped the edge of the table and sat up straight. A cup tottered and he reached out to hold it, choked, round its stem. He addressed Edgar. “Lord King, you cannot. Theirs is a love match.” Was this really the business of grown men who thought to rule a kingdom? “What good will be done by this heartlessness?”

Edgar’s breathing was rapid and shallow but he kept his gaze fixed on the far wall. Alvar shook his head and stared at the bishop.

Dunstan prepared himself for speech once more. He dropped his jaw and puffed out shots of breath. “Lewdness cannot be sanctioned. We are all of one mind.”

Alvar looked around the room for verification of this assertion, but only the East Anglians and the churchmen sat upright, alert and interested, while the rest of the witan members were sitting with heads bowed, or stared at the ceiling, or gazed out of the window, as if any sight were preferable to looking at Dunstan and being drawn into his scheme.
All of one mind?

Alvar slammed his palms down on the table. “Are we? It seems that most men here think that for the Fairchild to lose half a kingdom was enough. I did not think the Church would needlessly seek to harm him further.”

Elwood of Ramsey said, “You are new to the ways of the witan so I will tell you that we do not speak thus to our beloved bishops. You should take care, lest you earn yourself a bad name.”

“For what; plain-speaking?” Alvar looked at Dunstan, hoping that the bishop would answer his earlier question.

Dunstan held his hands out as if there were nothing more to be said or done.

Alvar persisted. “But what will become of his young wife; does she have land of her own? What has she to do with a fight between two brothers? She does not even have any children to bring her comfort in her loneliness.”

Elwood let slip a small smile, as if victorious. “And that is the point…” He stopped and composed his features into a scowl. “That is a good thing. She is no better than a whore. And you are a whore-monger if you speak on her behalf.”

“I take it you think that she will be better clothed in widow’s weeds?” Alvar glared at Elwood’s brothers, both of whom were nodding emphatically.

The second-eldest, the lord of Thetford, said, “The Fairchild must give her up.”

Brandon, the youngest, said, “It must be as my brother says.” His smooth cheeks glowed and he clenched his fists, but his gaze remained fixed downwards. His pale long lashes beat quickly below purplish lids.

Alvar ground his back teeth together and, under the table, out of sight, his hands clenched and unclenched while his foot tapped in quick beats upon the floor. This was not what he came for; this was not what was promised. At least on a battlefield there could be a fair fight, with each man knowing who the enemy was. He did not like the scheming of politics. He looked again at Dunstan. “Lord Bishop, you say that all the churchmen are as one on this, but what of our friend the bishop of Winchester?”

Dunstan wrinkled his nose. “I am glad that you asked me that.
Your
friend, the bishop of Winchester, stayed with the Fairchild and your elder brother in Wessex instead of coming here to stand with Edgar. But even had he come here, he could not speak on such matters. As a wedded man, he remains a shameful stain upon the Church.” He frowned. “The good name of your kin is besmirched by this friendship. Take care that it does not d-drag you down.”

“Is that a threat? I make my friends where I will, lord Bishop, and not at any man’s behest.”

“You should be…” Dunstan, alerted by a strange sound, glanced over to the hearth. The archbishop’s head bobbed up and down as a rattling cough faltered, unable to rise above his chest. Alvar watched Dunstan’s face, wondering if in fact he was concerned for the frail old man, or merely waiting for the archbishop to hurry up and die.

King Edgar spoke in a low voice, assuring attention. “I think that we must wait for the pope’s word on this and turn to other things now, my lords.”

Alvar followed the king’s lead and lowered his voice. “My lord, may I have one last word? This annulment might push the Fairchild too far; he agreed to the carving up of the kingdom but if he were to lose his wife might he not fight back?”

Edgar shrugged. “That’s what I’ve got you for.”

Elwood of Ramsey laughed shrilly and said, “It will not happen, my lord.”

Alvar looked at the East Anglian. The man looked panic-stricken and it seemed to Alvar that his assurance to the king sounded more like a prayer of hope than an avowal of certain truth.

He was alone in the meeting chamber. Most folk were lying in the hall, to sleep or hold their over-indulged bellies, or else were playing at the gaming boards by the light of the hall’s great hearth. Helmstan had ridden home to his lovely bride, unable to bear the separation any longer. Less than a twelve-month had passed since Alvar witnessed the same deep devotion shared by the Fairchild and his bride. Naught had been said of their close kinship before their wedding day. It was only when… Yes, it was only when Dunstan found the boy in bed with his bride and her mother. He’d threatened them with the wrath of the Almighty and the Fairchild banished him. Alvar sighed and sat forward to warm his hands by the fire. The early summer evenings were still cool and not all of the new shutters were a snug fit at the windows. He stared into the flames. So now Dunstan was back and wanted his revenge, and how better than to destroy the marriage? The strategy had been revealed as a means by which to ensure that Edgar remained sole heir to the whole kingdom, but nevertheless, delight was being taken in the shameful settling of old scores. He shook his head. There would be a great sorrow wreaked in the name of spite.

Alvar sat back in his chair. Dunstan had served three kings well and loyally, but the moment he had met resistance in the form of a lustful youth he had shown himself to be mettlesome. It was possible that he sought fame beyond his reformation of the abbeys; there had certainly been a covetous gleam in his eye when watching over the archbishop’s failing body. He had declared his determination never to be banished again and was doing all he could to ingratiate himself with Edgar. Alvar’s first day in the witan had shown him that Edgar would favour whoever could give him what he wanted. Everyone was elbowing for power and Alvar would have to do it too, or be swept aside. He was thrashing in water too deep for his liking but had no choice but to start swimming, for if not he would bring shame upon his father’s memory. In the meeting, raw and untried, he had perhaps spoken too much and too harshly, and it was probably not a good idea to antagonise the churchmen, but he must step in and make sure that Edgar was not influenced too much by the Church’s self-interest. Although he was still feeling light-headed, Alvar knew that there was no more time for wondering how it was that he had been picked up, spun round and placed in this absurd situation. He had sworn loyalty to Edgar, his king had asked for his service, and now Alvar knew that he must use more than his sword arm in the giving of it. He raised his head as the bell from the chapel broke into the stillness as it called those in the hall to compline. Alvar sprang to his feet.

He paused in the doorway as Elwood of Ramsey and his youngest brother walked by in silence on their way to the chapel.

Alvar, affable mood restored, called out after them. “Why so grim, my lords; have you so much to confess that you have forgotten how to smile?”

Elwood laid a hand on his brother’s arm, turned and retraced his steps until he was level with the entrance to the chamber. He lifted his chin and stared at Alvar through eyes drawn into nearly shut lines. “Oh I can bare my teeth, my lord, as I think you witnessed in the meeting. You saw what we did this day and we have barely begun. You are a warrior in an age of peace, and it is we swift-witted men who are the strong ones now.”

Alvar shrugged. “There will still be a need for warriors if the Vikings ever come back. Meanwhile, I’ll do whatever England needs.”

“You still do not understand, do you? This is not about England; this is about us and you.”

The brightness of Alvar’s mood dimmed once more. Ever since the coronation debacle at Cheddar and his speedy reassessment of the Fairchild, he had learned to value those who based their judgements on what they saw, not what they heard. “At least let me give you a reason to hate me,” he said. But then he sniffed. “Although, having seen your choice of friends, I must say that I am beginning to be glad that you do not count me amongst them.”

Elwood stepped closer, his breathing rapid and shallow. “I will make friends where I need to until I get back what you stole from me.”

Alvar was puzzled by his comment, and the fact that even now the man’s breath smelled oddly fresh. What had he been drinking all day if not the ale? And what kind of a man eschewed the king’s ale at the king’s table in the king’s hall where every other man, including the king, was more than comfortable in his drunkenness?

Elwood stalked back down the corridor and his younger brother waited until he was back alongside him before he dared to scowl.

Abbot Athelwold, Edgar’s former tutor, came quietly along the corridor and stopped in the doorway. Like Bishop Dunstan he was nearing his fifties, but, as he lifted the corners of his mouth, the skin between his dark eyes and high cheekbones remained smooth and unwrinkled. His hair was only barely flecked with grey and still dominated by fine strands that shone golden brown in the hearth-light.

Athelwold smiled. “I take it that you are not now coming to night-song, my lord?” He shuffled past, turned and said, “I understand, but take care. You are not the only son of a great man with a place at the king’s side, and you are not the only one with a yearning to keep it.”