Alvar the Kingmaker (33 page)

Alvar coughed and slid his thumb and index finger down the sides of his mouth to suppress his smile. “Edgar knew he could not get Lothian back, but he made it look as if he has gifted it to Kenneth. And all these kings must bear witness that Kenneth bowed down to Edgar for it and swore to stop attacking Bamburgh.”

Kenneth stood up and turned to face the assembled nobles. Alvar thought of a wounded stag he once shot, who turned into the forest and lived to fight another day.

Edgar stared across at Alvar, who nodded his satisfaction. The Welsh had conceded that they were subordinate, admitting that they would need to call for English help if attacked. The Norse brothers had agreed to stop their harassment, and Kenneth had been forced to acknowledge where the border between England and Scotland lay. This was a good day’s work.

With the formalities done, the hardier amongst the gathering began to shuffle around the deck. Bishop Athelwold stumbled over to Alvar. “Hold on to me, Bishop, if you will, for I think I have the way of it now, and can stand on this thing without falling. We might yet get back to the staithe without a soaking. Did all go well in Bath? Dunstan looks pleased with himself, so I guess that it did.”

Athelwold clung to the earl’s sleeve. “The archbishop rises above such thoughts. This was done for God and king and not for his own ends. You should not speak so…” He arrested his gentle rebuke and clasped his hands together. “It was a sight to behold, indeed. Gold everywhere, singing such as you never heard…” He twinkled a smile. “I am boring you. Let me say then only that it was all that we had hoped for.”

“So, must we call him Edgar Caesar, now?” Perhaps he was being unnecessarily harsh. Dunstan’s second king-making, all done with much ceremony and his beloved psalm-singing, had, apparently, been a triumph of spectacle. But this thing done here today, where so many kings bowed to Edgar, this surely would be the stuff of hearth-tales, the sealing of Edgar’s power and strength.

Athelwold patted his arm. “Do not let pride put clouds in your eyes, my lord. Could it be that one ceremony gave strength to the other? If Edgar did, indeed, come here as Caesar, does it matter who gave him that name?”

Alvar nodded his head to concede the point. But it was not easy to acknowledge that his lifelong foe might have been a help and not a hindrance in this instance. It seemed that his hatred had grown over the years and now matched Dunstan’s in intensity.

The bishop continued. “Besides, I hear you have greater work yet to do?”

Alvar offered his arm again as the boat lurched. “You mean the mints?” He resisted the urge to joke that the new uniform coinage should carry the head of Caesar upon it. “Edgar wants every penny in the land to be the same. It will take some doing, but now that this day is over, I can begin to think on the best way to…”

Athelwold convulsed.

“Lord Bishop?”

“Will be glad… Get back… To shore...” The bishop tightened his grip on Alvar’s arm and turned to vomit over the side of the ship.

The borough walls guarded an empty space; all the townsfolk were down by the quay. The town reeve was standing nearest the water, waiting for the royal party to disembark. Behind him, every baker, potter, and tanner cheered and jostled. A big man who smelled like a tree-wright stepped backwards and trod on Káta’s toes. Across the road, the goldsmith was standing alongside the minter; even rich men had turned silly in the sunshine. The horse-thegns stepped forward with the steeds and the dignitaries mounted. They took their weapons from their deputies and sheathed them for the short journey. The crowd roared and cheered. Káta jabbed her elbow back after yet another push from behind.

Siferth stood on tiptoe and said, “Which one is my uncle Alvar?”

“Oh, can you not wait until they ride by us? You will see well enough then.”

Siferth kept his gaze on the procession. “I do not know why you are cross. I am the one who should be irked after being deemed too young to ride alongside my father. Here they come. I can see the white nose on father’s horse. Will the lord Alvar hail us with a wave, do you think?”

The cheering around them grew louder as the riders neared, and Siferth rocked on the balls of his feet. Káta tutted and tapped his arm.

The crowd resumed the flower throwing and raised their voices in light-hearted jeers as the Welsh princes rode by. “Go home to your wife and sister. They are the same woman!”

The younger one took it in good part and leaned forward from his horse to bow to the crowd; the older one, whom some said was his uncle, glowered at the throng and spat curses at them in his native tongue. “Ciwed! Tyrfa ddireol! Dafad!”

Helmstan sat tall on his new bay stallion, the white blaze flashing bright in the sunshine. He turned to his left in time to nod to his wife and son, and Káta raised her arm to wave, but the richly dressed man who rode next to him kept his eyes on the road and did not once turn his head.

Alfreda held her son in front of her on the white mare and smiled at the crowds. As she passed by, Siferth drew in his breath and said, “Mother, the queen is so fair and lovely.”

Káta brought her arm down and covered her hand with her sleeve. “Oh, these folk all look pretty, but pretty does not get the stew cooked.”

“They are stopping now. Will they go on foot through the town do you think? The man who is helping the queen from her horse, is that Uncle Alvar? She looks lovely when she laughs, does she not, Mother?”

Káta sniffed. “All women look more comely when they laugh, it is well known. I can see why they say she is tall, but other than that…”

The elegant earl of Mercia had aged little, although perhaps if she were closer, she might see whether his hair had begun to grey. Again, from a nearer vantage point she might have seen if there were any embossed decoration on his expensive boots, but there was no escaping the piercing glare of the sun’s rays, caught by the jewels on his sword hilt and bouncing off in a blink-inducing beam, nor could she ignore the shining silk of his tunic, shot through with threads of gold that glinted and winked with his every movement. Although he must be nearer forty than thirty, he stood with a straight back and square shoulders. He took the queen’s proffered hand, and bowed low.

Siferth turned to Káta. “Are they not both fair-looking… Mother, what is wrong?”

“Naught. I am hot and tired, that is all. Come, let us go and find your father; soon it will be time to eat.”

Alvar walked into what he still thought of as the Greybeard’s hall, hung up his sword, and a young man immediately stepped away from the wall, touching his arm to gain his attention.

Hywel ab Ieuaf of Gwynedd had a face which presented a paradox. He had no lines or wrinkles yet this, perversely, gave him an appearance of perpetual sadness. He said, “A word, Lord Alvar?”

“As long as it is in English, this time.”

“I would rather have it that way, yes. As you know, my uncle’s English is not good, and what I have to say to you is not for his ears.” Hywel stared at him with dark brown eyes, barely blinking.

The familiar tug of excitement grabbed at Alvar’s stomach, but he did not move so much as an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Hywel said, “Our laws tend to set brother against brother. When men die, they do not leave land to the firstborn, but to all their sons. So when a king dies, this means that brothers fight to the death.” Three Yorkshire thegns walked by and he raised his voice against the strengthening background noise. “Five years ago…” He shook his head and grabbed Alvar’s arm, pulling him nearer to talk without shouting. “Five years ago, my uncle Iago locked my father away, and now dares to call himself lord of all Gwynedd.”

“So Iago and the other sons of Idwal are still at one another’s throats; naught new there. It must make your life in the rain-soaked hills a little less dull, but what has all this to do with me?”

Hywel waited as two king’s thegns walked past on their way to find their seats. He leaned in closer, brushing Alvar’s cheek with his hair as he spoke into his ear. “I mean to overthrow my uncle and free my father, and to do that I have need of English fyrdsmen. You fought my uncles six years ago. I wonder if you would fight again, now, with me.”

Alvar put his tongue to his lip and stared beyond Hywel. He said, “When I fought your uncles I was stirring up trouble for both sides. In truth, I care little for the Welsh.” Hywel’s eyebrows shot up in mock surprise and Alvar chuckled. “But I am drawn to a man who dares to talk of wrecking a cave when the bear is standing so nearby.” He nodded towards Hywel’s uncle. “You and I will speak some more, away from other ears, before you go back to your homeland.”

He turned away, and Beorn pushed an ale cup into his hands. “For a man, who like me, has left it too late to find a good seat, you are nevertheless looking cheerful.”

Alvar drained the cup and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Old friend, lately I have been feeling every one of my thirty-seven years. I have buried too many kin, lost too much land, and had to sit too near to Oswald at too many moots. But today I have watched a great man settle his kingship for once and for all. Edgar is living his forebear’s dream. Alfred would be proud to see how Edgar’s fleet sails round the shores every year, and to see the new silver pennies which are to be struck with Edgar’s head on them...”

Beorn feigned a yawn.

“And today I have been offered a fight.” He noted with satisfaction that Beorn closed his mouth and looked attentive once more.

“Oh yes? Need any help?”

But Alvar saw something else which did not please him and he put up his hand to silence his friend. “What is that mirk-mouth doing now?”

Archbishop Oswald had stopped on his way to the dais and was standing by the back wall of the hall. He was deep in conversation with Kenneth of Scotland, and by the manner in which he was holding his hand up to his mouth and whispering into the Scot’s ear, it was clear that this was not innocuous gossip. It would not be beyond Oswald to stir up a wasps’ nest if he thought that Alvar’s political tableau had triumphed over Dunstan’s coronation.

Alvar said, “He is too cunning to let us overhear, but let us get nearer; we might hear some of it.”

“Mother, you could have spoken then.”

“The lord Alvar is not to be yelled at as he goes by. Besides, he would not have heard me above this din. I will speak to him, but if you keep beleaguering me, it will be you that I bellow at, not him.”

Helmstan said, “What is this?”

Siferth opened his mouth, but Káta said, “Your son is yet another who has been smitten by our queen’s twinkling eyes. He wishes to go to the king’s household as his thegn, but I told him that he would need to speak to the earl about such things.” She looked to her left and glared at yet another couple who tried to squeeze onto the bench.

Helmstan said, “Really? I must say that I had always thought you would swear hold-oath to the lord Alvar when the time came. Still, to be a king’s thegn is to be worthy. I will speak to my lord.”

Siferth smiled. “I thank you, father, for it will mean that I can…”

Káta put her hand up. “I have said that I will do it. You are three years off being a man. Why must we have such a to-do about this?”

Helmstan lifted his arms, palms up in query, and Siferth said, “She has been in an ill-mood all day. It is the heat.” 

On the other side of the hall, slouched in his chair, Beorn grunted. “So, all our borders are safe. But while the fleet is watching the shores, who will watch the archbishop’s stronghold?”

Alvar helped himself to another drink. “Ah, so you have not delighted in working alongside Archbishop Oswald at York? Have you not found him to be a good and God-fearing man?”

“He is a thief.”

Alvar held the cup at his lips but did not drink; he set the ale down and laid a hand on Beorn’s arm. “Speak softly, my friend. There are too many eyes and ears in this hall.”

“It is too loud in here for any man to hear if we do not want him to.” Beorn tore a chunk of bread and chewed it as he spoke, spitting crumbs across the table. “I was made an earl so that I could be a sixth finger on the long-reaching hand of Wessex. But, whilst I am the king’s man, I have at least lived there all my life and know their ways.” He took a mouthful of ale. “Since his arrival in York, Oswald has shown only his greed for land and a yearning to make his kin rich.”

“So, he is doing the same things in Danish York that he has done in Mercian Worcester. Throws out the clerks, gives land to his kin?”

Beorn nodded. “He has built no new abbeys, but his kith and kin swarm the land like a horde of wasps.” He shrugged.

Alvar leaned forward to refill his cup. “I share your loathing. But for now, let us drown our woes in drink until we care only to go a-whoring but are too numb to do it.”

They drank cup after cup of strong, locally brewed ale until Alvar’s legs lost the ability to carry him outside in a straight line. He staggered into the night air, his only purpose to find the latrine or another suitable spot where he could empty his bladder and resume his drinking session with Earl Beorn. A woman came towards him, her head down and her arms folded. It took too long for his brain to tell his legs to move, but before the collision she looked up and took a side-step.