Alvar the Kingmaker (21 page)

Bishop Athelwold lifted an elegant sleeve and put a finger discreetly under his nose to catch a drop of moisture. The woven silk shimmered exquisitely. He nearly outshone the archbishop, and, amongst these elegantly clad churchmen, Alfreda must feel dull indeed.

Except that today it would not have been difficult to outshine the archbishop; Alvar had seen thunderclouds less black than Dunstan’s expression. During the preparation for the ceremonies, Athelwold, the champion of vulnerable women, had impressed Alvar and annoyed Dunstan all at once, arguing eloquently and vehemently in favour of Alfreda’s consecration as queen. Alvar, no less concerned for Alfreda’s wellbeing, and, truth be told, eager to exploit the opportunity to triumph over Dunstan, had pointed out the political advantages to be made. In Wessex, the wife of a king was seldom named queen; in Mercia, she always was. Edgar could bring his peoples together with such a gesture. Dunstan, comfortable for so long being the custodian of Edgar’s sin, saw his leverage slipping away as Edgar repudiated the saintly Wulfreda. The king was smitten with the widow from East Anglia and he would have no other. The meeting had taken less than an hour. Alvar mused that wars had lasted years with less decisive upsets in the balance of power. And it was no longer a private matter; anyone looking at the archbishop and his sour expression would be left in no doubt as to how he felt about his task this day.

What was not so easy for Alvar to understand, though, was why Alfreda had agreed to marry Edgar. He had assumed… Well, no matter, he had been wrong before. But he was convinced that this was no love match, and he wondered why she would suffer another loveless marriage. It had been clear for some time that she saw some advantage in being Edgar’s woman, but to be his wife? Once again, Alvar was surprised by what folk, even a beautiful woman like her, were prepared to do. Was it, in fact, he who was the fool, for all that he was prepared to do without?

Whatever her reasons, at least Alfreda would be able to use the title of queen for her whole life, and any future children would be named as high athelings, born of a king and a queen. He muttered under his breath. “But see how it sticks in Dunstan’s throat.”

Archbishop Dunstan’s lips were drawn into a thin line, almost disappearing into the folds of his fleshy face. As he anointed Alfreda with holy oil, his arm moved in stiff jerks, as if tense muscles were fighting against the lightness of touch that was required to consecrate the woman as queen.

Alvar, too, winced, as the plain-chant began again. “Here is that din once more. I do not mind the scops when they sing, but these monks with their psalm-singing…”

Swytha rested her hand on his arm. “It will soon be over.”

Alvar glanced again at Alfreda. She was well known for her love of the finer things in life, but this grim set of her mouth surely could not be merely the result of being forced to dress in a lowly fashion? As soon as Alvar and Athelwold were convinced that she was willing to agree to the marriage, they had both done what they could to strengthen her position. Pray God that they did not all find themselves wishing that they had listened to Dunstan after all.

Alvar, standing by the hearth in the crowded dining hall of the king’s palace, turned as Alfreda walked through the doorway. She mouthed a few words as if in prayer as she searched the throng with her gaze, and he made his way to her side.

She rested her fingers on his arm. “Thank you. I felt as if I were drowning amongst so many folk whom I do not know.” She gave him a regal nod and a practised smile.

“Why did you wed him?”

Alfreda put her arm down and blinked twice. “You have a blunt way of speaking, my lord.”

He smiled. “Forgive me, my lady. I am becoming well known for it.”

She put her head to one side and stared at him, as if in appraisal. She straightened up and gave him another smile, this time of friendship. “There is naught to forgive. I will tell you why I said yes to the match. The king wooed me and pledged riches to me and my kin.”

“I do not believe you.”

Alfreda lowered her voice. “You are right. The truth is that when the king asked me, I had many thoughts. I thought, who will say no to the queen? Who would dare to beat the queen?” Her head came up and she thrust her chin forward, but there were tears in her eyes when she said, “And who will take the queen’s children from her?”

He swallowed hard. He knew that when she arrived at court her sons by Elwood of Ramsey had remained in East Anglia, but he had assumed that she had wished it so. Now he could see that Elwood’s kin had a hand in the deed. “You have had many burdens to bear. I am sorry for you.”

Alfreda breathed in, and her shoulders shook. “I asked the lord Brandon for news of my children, which he would not give me. Bishop Oswald warned me not to ask the king for help, and then the archbishop said of the wedding that if the king took the widow, he should leave the sons.”

Alvar swore. It was no surprise that Dunstan would want Alfreda’s sons out of the way, for he would not wish to see any full-grown athelings come forward to challenge the claim of Edward, the king’s son by Wulfreda. But it was more an act of spite than an effective strategy; Dunstan’s hopes for Edward were dependant on Alfreda’s producing no more children. Whilst they would be younger than Edward, any future issue would rank more highly, being born to a king and his consecrated queen. Dunstan was forced to play a waiting game before he could see his hopes for Edward realised. Alvar said, “Sometimes I think that Dunstan might have fathered that child himself. It is no wonder that he would rather have eaten fire than see you named queen.”

“Oh, you see it too. We think alike, so you will understand when I swear that no-one will gain from this match more than I shall, and that I will have many more children.” She raised her voice. “I will need friends in the king’s house, Lord Alvar. Can I know that you are one of them?”

He flashed a grin. “Lady, I was yours the first day I laid eyes on you.”

She returned his smile, and for the first time that day the smile lifted high enough to return the sparkle to her eyes.

He gave a deep bow, backed away, and turned to greet his brother.

Brock had pushed his way through the crowd, his elbows out to the sides to protect the drinks in his hands. He handed a cup to Alvar. The noise in the hall rose and fell as shouts of laughter broke out periodically above the general hum of conversation. Brock nodded and reached up to speak nearer Alvar’s ear. He said, “They are badly matched for height; I would say that she is taller by more than a hair.”

Edgar had come to stand by his new wife. His blond curls licked round his gold coronet and caught at the soft bristles on his jaw. He stood a hip’s width behind her so that his leg pressed against hers.

Alfreda turned her head and looked at Alvar. Her smile had gone.

Edgar’s head was positioned such that he appeared to be whispering into his wife’s ear. She gazed straight ahead and continued to stare at Alvar. Edgar’s hand slid round her waist and stroked upwards almost to her breast and down almost to her thigh. He stepped away from her side, reaching for her hand. He led her through the crowded hall and most of the witnesses smiled their indulgence, for no man needed to have heard Edgar’s words to know what was on his mind. Only Archbishop Dunstan glowered as they walked past him.

Alvar said, “I wonder if he is thinking right now of the day of the Fairchild’s king-making?”

Brock rubbed his chin. “You could be right. This will be the second time he has lost out to a king’s woman. Edgar the love-sick husband will not yield to Dunstan’s bidding the way Edgar the youth has done.”

Alvar looked again at the archbishop. Alfreda had thought to protect herself with this wedding, but ironically ran the risk of becoming the target of more hatred. If she was aware that Dunstan rarely gave up without a fight, then she was playing a dangerous game.

Dunstan stood up from his seat on the dais, and began to make his way across the room.

Brock gave his empty cup to a serving-boy and took two more drinks from him, this time choosing the specially prepared ceremonial mead drink known as bride-ale. He held the cups aloft, sloshing the contents, and offered one to Alvar.

Alvar clasped his brother’s shoulder and said, “I find the mead too heavy in my belly this day. Find me some ale, I will be back soon.”

Alvar elbowed his way through the crowd, impeded by the squash of bodies. He felt a foot under his shoe, but in the crowd could not direct an accurate apology. He followed Dunstan to the back of the hall. Away from the fire at the far end of the room, though the air was less smoke-filled, it was darker here and there were only a few couples, who, like Alvar, wished to stay in the shadows and not be seen. When he arrived, he wiped spilt ale from his sleeve and kept close to the wall, while the archbishop walked up to the door of the king’s private chamber and waved away the door-thegn. The man hesitated, but was not brave enough to speak out against the wishes of the archbishop of Canterbury. All had seen the king leave the hall with his bride and knew his intent, and so it occurred to Alvar that they might not have barred the chamber door. Dunstan obviously thought so too, and reached out to push it open.

The royal couple had moved beyond the doorway only as far as it had taken to kick the door shut. Alfreda was standing, with her skirts gathered in her hands. The king was kneeling in front of her, his face between her thighs.

Alvar leaped forward to stand behind Dunstan and block the view from the rest of the hall. Dunstan’s head turned as he looked from the motionless couple to the empty bed, still made and strewn with flowers. He must have envisaged that his admonishment would interrupt a coupling under the covers of the royal bed. Alvar leaned forward and looked past Dunstan’s reddening neck. Alfreda remained as she had been when the door crashed open, her head turned towards the archbishop, whose ear-tips were now purple.

“F-f-fornicators!” he spat the Latin in his pulpit voice. When the echo died away he swept round and tried to quit the chamber. He pushed at Alvar, barely giving him a glance, but the earl was slow to move out of the way.

Alvar whispered into Dunstan’s ear. “It looks as if the king no longer wishes to wear his hair shirt,” he said, before he bowed low and stood aside to let him pass.

Alfreda did not move, but stared at Edgar. He was still on his knees; he looked up at her and said, “No man owns me. I
will
have you.”

Edgar lowered his head once more, hands reaching to grab her buttocks, pulling her nearer his face, and Alvar stepped forward to close the door for them. As the door swung, the queen shuddered and bit her lip. Alvar secured the latch and walked back to the feasting tables, unable to shake the notion that Alfreda, at the moment of exquisite pleasure, had been smiling out into the hall; not at Edgar’s head, but at Dunstan’s back.

Alvar took his seat at the witan meeting and looked across at the queen. Her face was flushed but it was not from any warm afterglow. He had seen the look before, on the faces of men who had fought and survived their first battle.

She gave a tiny nod and he twitched the flicker of a smile. He turned at the touch of a hand on his shoulder.

“Here I am, come to take my seat amongst all the doughty lords of the kingdom. I hope they will be gentle with me.” Beorn of Northumbria sat down beside him.

Alvar grinned. “They can see how tall you are, and I have told them how skilfully you wield a sword. I think you will have no trouble from them,
Earl
Beorn.”

Beorn gave a shy smile in response to the use of his new title. “It still sounds odd to my ears.” He reached up to move his hand over his shiny baldness. “It sounds odd to some others, too, given that I was not born in Northumbria.”

Alvar chuckled. “Welcome to the mind of our king. He flatters the Northumbrians by giving them a lord who has lived amongst them, but he made you earl of York
because
you were not born there. He means to show your folk that his word is law in the north, and that they would do well to remember it.”

“If he truly wants to keep his name in the minds of the north folk, do you think he might like to go there once in a while? I have a sore arse from riding all this way.”

“Edgar knows how far away it is, my friend, which is why he sends me so often in his stead. Even I cannot say for sure where Northumbria ends.”

Beorn folded his arms across his bulky chest. “I wish the Scots could say the same, but they seem sure that the border is much further south. Let us hope that Edgar’s fleet and my weapon-men are enough to keep them away. The Greybeard of Chester shares my concerns, and I wanted to speak to him further, but I see that he is not here today.”

Alvar looked around the hall. “No, neither is his thegn, Helmstan,” he said. He scanned the room again, once more along every bench, and into every corner, and cursed his brain for not believing what his eyes had told him five times that day already.

Beorn continued. “The Greybeard has been unwell. He says that either the Scots or another winter will be the end of him; in the cold, his feet and legs redden and swell so that he cannot walk. Ah, here comes the king.” He sought confirmation of Alvar’s earlier instruction. “Wide awake?”

“Oh yes,” Alvar said. Many a time he had watched as various members of the witan had fallen asleep and he would willingly have followed them into unconscious oblivion, but dared not, in case anyone wished to hear the opinion of the leading earl. The trick was to find something to engage the attention and focus intently upon it.