Alvar the Kingmaker (17 page)

Now, as if to punish her further, He sent an unnaturally warm evening and while her husband lay shivering in his bed, she lay on her cot and flung the covers down to her ankles. Lifting her linen shift, she wafted it in an attempt to fan some cool air onto her body. The shutter was open and the sound from the street teased her, carrying the laughter of those who had been whiling away their evening in the drinking hall. London folk were not tied to the land but to the tides and could often afford to stay out of their beds long after sundown. Some of the shrieks wafting up gave the impression that many were destined for a bed other than their own and Alfreda tried not to listen, knowing that envy would send her even further from sleep.

The laughter stopped abruptly though, and the chatter turned into enquiries, with the conversation no longer contained within the small groups, but exchanged with others across the street. Detecting consternation in the raised voices, Alfreda left her sweat-soaked mattress and went to the window. Out on the street, folk had huddled into groups and many were pointing at the high ground towards the church of St Paul. Did she hear the word before she sensed the heat; did she detect the thick stench before she saw the flames? Or did her senses receive all the information at the same time as a drunk came running past the window shouting “Fire!”?

Now the only sound to be heard was that of panic. Bundles were thrown out of windows, hastily clad servants ran from the houses, and horses, mules and cows all emitted the same bestial scream of terror. Alfreda was aware only that she was oddly calm and was able to think for a while about which gown she should put on. She turned back into the room, trying to remember which chest contained her green silk kirtle. She walked over to the corner and lifted the lid of the largest chest. Slipping the dress over her head she turned to the rasping sound emanating from somewhere under the bedclothes.

“Wh… What is it?” Elwood, still shivering, tried to raise himself up on one elbow, but fell back.

Alfreda crossed the room once more, pulled the shutter tight against the window space and said, “It is naught. Some drunks, that is all.”

She made her unhurried way down the stairs and walked through the ground floor. Every bench was empty, there were no hounds left by the fire. The servants had needed no prompting to get out before the flames came licking at the walls. She stepped out into the street. She stood for a moment, wondering where she should go, before deciding merely to follow the crowd, away from the conflagration and, she presumed, towards the river. A man approached her and pointed up at the first floor of her house.

“Lady, the fire is nearly upon us. Is anyone still in the house?”

Alfreda cast a perfunctory glance back towards her recent prison and then looked at the man. In a voice that sounded very far away, as if it were not her own, she said, “No”, before she picked up her skirts and walked up the street, hurrying until she caught up and became just another one of the crowd.

Winchester 

Death always stalked nearby. Though it was many years since any Englishman had died at the hands of the Vikings, famine and sickness were ever present. Churchmen, with food rents still paid to them, even in times of hardship, fared well during periods of pestilence, safe from elf-shot behind their monastery and minster walls. Noblemen, too, usually remained well-nourished enough to fight off the diseases which carried off the old, the weak and the very young. The news that the latest outbreak had claimed a victim in Elwood of Ramsey had set tongues clacking throughout Edgar’s court. Rumours abounded, but the predominant one was that his servants had abandoned him and, left alone, weak from the plague, he was unable to escape the fire. But if the lord of Mercia’s face was sombre-set, it was not because of grief. Edgar had explained his reasons for choosing Ramsey’s successor but, whilst Alvar understood the thought process, he saw no reason to pretend happiness. To his complaint that there should be a much less suggestible man in charge of such a large area as East Anglia, Edgar had merely shrugged. ‘
I owe them.’

And then there was the baby. Despite Dunstan’s initial protestations, Edgar had helped himself to the lady Wulfreda, removing her from the nunnery before she managed to dedicate herself to Christ, and then ruining her prospects of returning to the convent by promptly impregnating her. Dunstan, who had so publicly denounced the Fairchild for debauchery, had sanctioned this union and declared the child to be throne-worthy. Alvar had been right to suspect the archbishop of harbouring political ambitions; Dunstan had served two martial kings before Edgar and his brother, and every day he appeared to be less the naïve cleric and more the shrewd statesman. Indeed, he had already shown that he would use murder to get his own way if necessary. The sordid murder plot had not produced the desired outcomes, so to push on with their reforms the churchmen now had no recourse but to retain Edgar’s favour. Thus Edgar was forgiven and allowed to keep his nun, and Alvar could only shake his head at the hypocrisy of men who made a pastime of denigrating men such as himself. He smiled mirthlessly, for Edgar, meanwhile, was never one to dissemble, recognising the value of a mutually beneficial contract and acknowledging that a fee must be paid. Alvar marched across the enclosure, Edgar’s words ringing still in his ears. ‘
My brother upset the Church and look where it got him. I cannot risk their ire. Dunstan is my confessor; he has blessed my child and is content. He might even forget past hurts if he is not upset again. I cannot call off his hound, so I have thrown Oswald a bone. We must all do with this what we can.’

Alvar barged up to the great doors. ‘
I owe them.’
Indeed. And here, proof of that portion of the debt having been settled, was the new earl of East Anglia, smoothing his feathers. Oh yes, Edgar always paid his dues. But he was too clever to leave himself vulnerable, and perhaps only Alvar really understood this. It might prove diverting to watch as the new lord of East Anglia learned at first hand the genius of Edgar’s gamesmanship. ‘
We must all do with this what we can.’

Waiting to go into the king’s hall, Brandon, the youngest brother of Elwood, was standing against the antechamber wall. He ran his hand over his blond hair and adjusted his tunic belt. The neck of his tunic was edged with gold embroidery and beneath it he wore a delicately embroidered white linen undershirt. His belt buckle was richly jewelled, with inlaid garnets and gold filigree. As he wriggled it into a comfortable position, his rings flashed their gemstones. All around him, the earls and leading thegns wore expensive, brightly coloured silk and they, too, were laden with gold and jewels. Yet in the crowded room, Brandon alone looked self-conscious and uncomfortable, his pale face even more wan than usual. Oswald was standing beside him, his head still but his eyes blinking quickly as he glanced round the room. He moved only to step back when necessary to allow the press of people to move on.

Alvar stepped away from the doorway and moved with the tide of thirsty men.

When Brandon hitched up his belt for the second time, Oswald said, “Do not worry, my lord, you look well-clothed. As you did when you swore your oath as an earl.”

“Did I? Did I? I hoped to. It is a hard thing, to dress well enough but without outshining our king. I think I have it right.”

Alvar, arriving next to them, stopped alongside Oswald and steadied himself against the flow.

Oswald met his gaze, staring at him with his blue pin-hole eyes, but spoke to Brandon. “The king raised you up to be earl above your elder brother. He sees your worth.” Oswald smiled his worm-thin smile.

“Horse dung.” Alvar was gratified to see Oswald’s sneering smile slip away.

The bishop’s mouth shrank into a wrinkled pout. “You speak crudely. You are rude.”

Alvar snorted a laugh. “Am I? I wonder why? Could it be that if a hound is poked often enough with a sharp stick, it will rise up and bite its tormentor?” He stepped forward. “And rude or not, I speak the truth. Brandon is earl because of his shared childhood with Edgar, and because you spoke on his behalf and promised to pray away Edgar’s sins. Look at the youngling; even he does not believe he can do this unaided.”

The tip of Oswald’s nose twitched, and even in the confined space he managed to draw up to his full height to look Alvar in the eye. “But he will do it well. And he will do what he has to without having ale in one hand and a whore in the other. I throw your words back at you and say that only friendship binds you to Edgar. Why else would he keep such an uncouth man by his side?”

“My lords, it is not becoming…”

They looked at Brandon.

“I thought you had forgotten I was here,” he said.

“You are right,” Oswald said. “We must not make a show of ourselves. It is time to be in the hall. Lord Alvar, I cannot move forward; you are in my way.”

Alvar leaned nearer the bishop and met his gaze, unblinking. “Never did I hear a truer word. But have a care, for one more step and you will be on my toes. And then…”

The corridor cleared and a line of monks made their way past, cowls on and heads bowed. They were followed by the archbishop of Canterbury. Dunstan smiled as he approached the lords and they followed him into the hall.

Up on the dais, Edgar’s lady companion was seated in the queen-seat, holding her newborn son. Alvar shook his head. “And I, branded whore-monger, am the only one who sees anything wrong in this.”

Oswald turned to face Alvar. His thin skin stretched over his cheeks like that over a ripe plum. “This land has been rocked too many times by the deaths of young, childless kings. Edgar has a good woman and a healthy child. Lord Brandon has a high-born wife and more than one son.” His lean lips curled upwards. “Where is your lady? Where are your children? You have only whores, but you dare to tell others that they live shameful lives? A hound with fleas will not tell a great man how to wash, my lord.” Vitriol expelled, Oswald’s face faded to its usual grey. He said, “A new son born to the house of Wessex is a good thing and we must thank God for it.”

Alvar glared at him. “So, if I understand you: bishops, like poor old Winchester, may not wed. Monks, unless they are your kin, may not hold land. And you, the bishop of Worcester, now hold a ship-soke in return for absolving Edgar of the small matter of his not being wed to the mother of his child. I bow to your learned wisdom.”

A crackle gurgled in Oswald’s throat.

Brandon said, “Again, the two of you speak athwart me as if I am not here.”

Oswald pointedly turned his back on Alvar before he answered Brandon. “You are right. We should be speaking instead about how, through the use of land, we can make East Anglia stronger. We will show the godless lords how mighty the Church can become, and where better to do it than Mercia?”

Alvar clenched his fists and breathed in until his nostrils stretched. In the lowest, growling tone his voice could project, he said, “You can try. Mercia has never yet bent to the rule of a Dane, be he Viking or churchman.”

He sought out his brother. Brock was sitting near the hearth with the abbot Athelwold and a young woman who remained in the shadows. Alvar approached them, still muttering under his breath, vowing to minimise the East Anglian religious influence on Edgar, denouncing their ingratiating attempts to indulge his every whim, and bemoaning the foul smell of hypocrisy.

Brock looked up. “Are you behaving yourself?”

“I should have felled him where he stood. Rotting crow-body…” Alvar sat down and shoved his legs out straight in front of him. “I reminded him that he is not one of us, but I only spoke the truth.”

The abbot chuckled. “I think he owns enough land in East Anglia to call himself an Englishman. And, some might say, enough kin in the Church to call himself archbishop whenever he thinks the time is right. But you would not hear that from me.”

Athelwold sat forward and the young woman looked up. A few strands of her Celt-dark hair hung free from her headdress and the deep beauty of her sloe-eyes erased all thoughts of churchmen and holy pastimes.

The abbot spoke on. “But… Oswald’s sorrow… Sad shape of our monasteries… Heartfelt…”

Alvar’s pretence at listening enabled him to pick out a few words, but he was not looking at the abbot. “I believe we have not met, my lady.”

The young woman bestowed a smile on Alvar that was warm enough to melt glass.

Brock knocked him from his catatonic state. “This is Lady Alfreda, widow of Elwood of Ramsey. The lady widow is under the abbot’s care.”

Now Alvar had another reason for disliking the late lord of East Anglia; why had this exquisite creature been hidden so long from view? He continued to stare, feeling the rising heat from the fire and aware, but unashamed, that he was behaving like an unsophisticated stable-boy. The lady held his gaze for longer than was seemly and then slowly looked down, her long lashes dropping delicate shadows on her cheeks.

Brock’s wife Swytha came to join them, and Alvar heard snatches of her whispered words of assurance to Brock that their young foster-son, Goodwin, was settled and happy with Swytha’s serving-woman.

Swytha said to Alfreda, “The shapes on your kirtle are pretty.”

Alfreda smoothed her patterned skirt. When she spoke, Alvar thought of honey, dripping from a spoon. “I have my cloth sent from York. It is the best. Where is yours from?”

Swytha shrugged. “We weave our own cloth, my lady.” She looked at Alvar as if requiring help, but Alvar was cognisant enough of his own shortcomings to know that his was not the best advice to seek on how to speak to high-born ladies without causing offence.