Alvar the Kingmaker (2 page)

He sighed and looked up. Now that the carousers had gone inside, it was as if the incident had never happened. Folk on the royal estate went about their business as if today were the same as yesterday. On the other side of the enclosure, the huntsmen fed the Fairchild’s hounds, whilst nearby in the mews, the fowler and his boy attended to the king’s hunting birds. Outside the fowler’s hut, the geese flapped and hissed at the dairyman walking to the cook-house with two buckets of milk. A monk, not yet tonsured, was sitting on the ground outside the writing-house, his lithe young legs crossed. Sitting beside him, with a small hand resting on the brother’s knee, a village boy looked up as he listened to the monk’s tale, his basket of freshly gathered strawberries temporarily forgotten. Another boy was guarding a cartload of casks of wine from the vineyard at nearby Panborough while an older youth and a man unloaded them into the cook-house.

In the corner of the courtyard, three men kept a regular beat as they threshed piles of wheat taken from the stores, winnowing it free of chaff as quickly as they could to keep the quern stones turning. Snorts and stamping emanated from the overcrowded stables as the groom arrived with another stallion, but the horse-thegns took the animal with orderly efficiency.

Alvar turned to greet the man who had come to stand next to him.

His brother, Brock, returned his smile and the two men stood side by side in comfortable silence, watching the scene as the players within it acted out the familiar daily routines.

After a few moments Alvar said, “Out here, at least, everything is as it should be and that is thanks to you as king’s steward.”

Brock laughed, running his hand through his hair and smoothing down the badger-stripe of premature grey that ran from his temple to his crown, the source of his nickname. “The business of running the kings’ halls changes little, even if they do keep giving me new kings to train.”

Alvar let out a sardonic laugh. “From what I saw earlier, you would be mad even to try with this one. And it was not a mess that could be swept away with a besom.” Alvar shook his head and said, “I have taken an earldom from him and yet I cannot help but feel he is too shiftless to be a good king.”

Brock said, “Then we must both teach him.” He clasped his younger brother by the shoulders and patted Alvar’s arm ring. “To me, he is a whelp who will need to be taught, but to you he is a great gift-giver, eh my lord?” Brock emphasised the last word and gave a mock bow.

Alvar stroked the ring. He rubbed his finger over the smoothness of the inlaid garnets and traced the pattern of the gold filigree. Would his father’s lands in the shires of Hereford, Worcester and Gloucester, and the title that went with them, have even passed to him if his elder brother were not already richly rewarded and occupied in the role of steward? He said, “I have much to live up to. You have worked so hard and served three kings now and I have yet to…”

“Make your mark?”

Alvar raised his eyebrows as Brock once again finished his thought for him. Sixteen when Alvar was born, Brock seemed sometimes to know him better than he knew himself.

Brock said, “Yes, I was the first to follow where our father trod and you think I have become rich and esteemed. You, on the other hand, never had to work for anything. One grin and our mother, God rest her soul, would look at your beseeching grey eyes and she would melt like butter in the sunshine.”

Alvar laughed. It was true. Their mother often said that all he had to do was stare at her with eyes so like her own and she would believe his every tale. Brock, as the eldest, had to learn everything and all Alvar had to do was copy him. No wonder he felt that, even though he was now twenty years old, the earldom had come to him like a tame hound onto his lap. Their father was a man about whom hearth-tales were told, up and down the land. His boots were bigger than Alvar’s feet and Alvar wondered how he would ever fill them.

Brock slapped him on the back. “Too much thinking addles the brain, little brother. You wield a sword better than any man I know. The Fairchild could not have picked a better man to protect the western marches and keep the Welsh away from our ale and women. Speaking of which, we should be away inside now.”

Alvar squeezed the hilt of his new sword, reminded that now the ceremony was over, he would be obliged to hang the weapon up inside the hall. The hilt was decorated with the familiar threaded pattern that represented the winding and interwoven strands of life, unbroken between this world and the next. It was a trapping of his investiture that had quickly begun to hang heavily by his side, but its decoration represented continuity. Worthy or not, he should be prepared, as its new owner, to act accordingly and uphold the sovereignty of kingship, whoever the king might be.

In the dim light inside the hall it was still easy to spot his friend Helmstan, for even when he was sitting down his height ensured that his shoulders were level with the heads of his companions. Those shoulders were heaving up and down as the big Mercian showed his hearty appreciation of some lewd joke or riddle. On the tables below the hearth, where the servants did not go, the men from Gloucester and Herefordshire, now under Alvar’s protection, laughed and talked as they passed the food and drink around the table. The Cheshire thegns sitting near them shared an aurochs drinking horn; unable to set it down, they had to pass it continuously or else spill the ale.

Alvar hung his sword on the nail nearest to where his shield lay propped against the wall. He walked over to the Mercian tables, patting Helmstan’s shoulder before he swung his legs over the bench to sit down.

Helmstan turned at the touch and his smile stretched even wider. His dog-brown eyes peered out from under a shaggy fringe and then he pulled his features into a mock frown. “I had wondered if you were too good to sit with us plain folk, now that you have been made a great lord.”

Alvar chuckled. “You will need someone to lean on when you can no longer walk straight. Besides,” he nodded towards the thegns of southern Mercia, “They are my men now but I am not your lord,
Cheshire
-man.”

The teasing insult induced the expected snort of contempt from Helmstan. “Cheshire? There was never a shire of Cheshire. It was a name made up by Wessex when their kings swallowed our land. My lands around Chester were part of the kingdom of Mercia in better days gone by.” He slurped some more ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Never mind though. Now that you are lord of your father’s demesne…”

Alvar settled back, caught in his own trap and prepared to be snared for some time. Helmstan would not let the opportunity pass to voice his thoughts about the diminished ancient kingdom of Mercia, now governed not by its own kings but by earls appointed by Wessex. Alvar, looking up, wondered which was the greater: the oak beams holding up the roof, or the number of times that Helmstan had lamented the loss of Mercian autonomy.

“And now we can work together to get back all the land that was stolen from the old kingdom. The king has given you back your father’s lands, but what of the fenland?  That, too, once belonged to Mercia.”

Alvar refrained from scoffing at the mention of the boggy marshland, but not with ease, for he could not imagine who in his right mind would wish for control of that wind-ravaged swamp. He laid a hand gently on his friend’s arm. “Would that I had one tenth of your passion for the old kingdom of Mercia, but even though I grew up there, the truth is that I took the lands only because they were my father’s. I wish merely to do my duty by keeping the Welsh out and the folk safe within.” He squeezed Helmstan’s arm and released it. “Put away your dreams for your homeland for a while. Here comes the food.”

Helmstan’s mouth hung open, an unspoken nationalist protest doubtless waiting to issue forth, but he hesitated and evidently thought better of it, grabbing the drinking horn instead.

Alvar smiled and waited, looking around the hall while the servants knelt down with the spit-roasted lamb, and the diners took pieces of meat from the serving-plates.

Where once the wall-hangings shone with gold weaving, the embroidery was now snagged and faded. Alvar wrinkled his nose at the smell of tallow candles where beeswax should have burned. He looked down. The linen tablecloth was threadbare in places. There was bread, but it was ordinary barley bread and there seemed too much of it and now Alvar knew why, because the meat was meagre in portion and the serving-platters were soon empty. If the Fairchild did not care to show his wealth as a lord with plenty, he could not hope for men to love and follow him.

Alvar’s plate was full and the servants melted away. He eschewed the dual purpose prong-handled spoon in favour of his own hand-knife. He stroked the silver decoration on the blunt side of his knife, winding his finger along the smith’s engraving, ‘
Gosfrith made me’
, and gazed without focus as he gathered his thoughts. As he felt again the constricting pressure of the ornate arm ring, Alvar knew exactly what the Fairchild was hoping. Never had so many men been made earls in such a short time. The Fairchild was too young to have proven himself politically and it was obviously his intention to buy the nobles and thereby bind them to him. Might this be the only reason that Alvar had been given his father’s lands? It was possible; Helmstan was right when he said that under the previous kings, Mercia and Mercian lords had not done well out of the expansion of Wessex, so there must be a reason if their fortunes were suddenly to rise. Well, Alvar might have taken the bait, but it didn’t mean that he had to be caught in the net. The king needed guidance, but Mercia needed a worthy lord, and that meant an opportunity for Alvar to prove himself to a dead father.

The hall door opened and the Fairchild sauntered to his seat, but took care to settle his young wife in her chair before sitting down himself. The noise levels rose again as those already seated resumed their meal. The Fairchild took a pitcher of wine from the servant hovering by his chair and served his consort, a gesture at odds with tradition, where the lady of the house personally served the guests. She smiled and held his gaze while he poured, leaning her head towards his chest and stroking his free arm. As Alvar watched the newlyweds it occurred to him that despite their callowness and taste for scandal, they were in love.

Alvar became aware of movement further along the head table as a figure rose unsteadily to his feet. Abbot Dunstan’s lower lip hinged up and down as he prepared to speak. “M-m-my lord King, I would be doing less than my d-duty to God and Church if I did not sp-speak out.”

Alvar looked down at his fingernails. Dunstan had clearly not put the earlier incident behind him; his stammer was worse than usual and Alvar felt unable to continue being eyewitness to his discomfort.

The abbot continued. “Today I have seen much land gifted away. Yet the late king bequeathed lands to certain abbeys and they have not received them.” Stumbling on, he said, “Furthermore, the late king’s widow has also b-been deprived of lands which were willed to her by the king.” Snatching a breath too short to allow the Fairchild to speak in the pause, he said, “And the king’s b-burial itself was unlawful…”

Alvar looked up.

The Fairchild did not move, but sat with arms loosely by his sides. A slight twitch of his shoulder suggested that the king still had one hand on his wife’s knee. The Fairchild’s expression gave nothing away, unless it was boredom. Indeed, as he opened his mouth to speak, his jaw dropped as if he were stifling a yawn. “So, Abbot… On my crowning-day, you begin by threatening me with hell and now you call me a thief. Yes, the late king bequeathed many lands and treasures, some of which seem to have found their way into your hands when they should have come to me. I say that it is you, Dunstan, lowly abbot, who is the thief.”

There was a pause, and then Dunstan spoke, his voice shrill. “I am steadfast and true. I was a faithful servant to the late king.”

“I am not he. And you have stolen from me.”

Dunstan stood his ground, but his eyebrows drew together in a frown, his brave anger giving way to dismay. “N-not true. Those lands belong to the Church.”

The Fairchild placed his hands on the table, pushed himself upright and stared at Dunstan. “You are a liar and you will give back all that you have stolen. As for my uncle the king’s burial, it is better that he was laid to rest in Winchester, for I would not wish you to profit from him in death as you did in life. Do not pretend that your abbey would be the poorer for having a king buried there.”

“B-but it was not lawful. The king wished to be buried at Glastonbury. That was not my whim, but the written will of the king. How could you believe that I would seek to b-benefit from such a burial?”

“Abbot, I know that you will not, for I am sending you from these lands. No, do not speak another word, for I have had my fill of your stammering sermons. First you dare to tell me that I have withheld lands from the abbeys. Then you dare to say that I have robbed a grieving widow. Then you seek to dig up the king’s body, not yet cold, and take it to your own abbey. Get you gone, wretched abbot, before I tell all those who do not already know how you tried to shame me earlier this day. Get you gone from my hall and my lands.”

Abbot Dunstan’s face shone red and moist. Alvar uncrossed his legs and shifted further back into his chair, discomfited by the Fairchild’s clumsy attempt to assert his authority. Dunstan had served the boy’s predecessors wisely and loyally. It was a show of strength on the king’s part that succeeded only in seeming vindictive. Even while Dunstan was leaving the room, the Fairchild raised his ale cup and demanded the toast. “Be hale!”