Alvar the Kingmaker (36 page)

“She is a queen, you are right. But she is a queen who is hated by Dunstan. We have much to argue about before it is settled. And before we speak about it, I have to deal with you. Why did you do it?”

Beorn waved a hand and a servant appeared from the shadows, darted over to the thegns’ table, and came back to the dais with some ale and two cups. Beorn waited until the drinks had been poured. “I can only say that a black madness came over me. When I heard that Edgar was dead I thought only of his beloved Oswald, who was an arrow in my side. I thought of how he sat in York, taking land from men who held it freely from me, forbidding the clerks from getting wed or even to make wills, so that their land would go back to the Church upon their death.” He drew a deep breath, sighed and lowered his head. “I had too much to drink and I rode to York not knowing what I meant to do when I got there. Thank God that I was too drunk to wield my knife with any skill. Either that, or the ale that stirred my wrath also washed it away.”

“You are truthful at least. And it is to your credit that in the end, you stayed your hand. After years of all his doings and having to watch him build all those monasteries, I do not know if I would have had the strength to withhold.”

Beorn laughed, but it rang hollow, like one sharp beat on a drum. “Then it would have been my task to ride to fetch you. Either way, we stand together. Even so, you are far too steadfast in your friendships, and that might not be wise for you any more.”

“Do not worry, my friend. Your Northumbrian shit will not stick to me.” Alvar laughed too, but there was no force behind it and the sound melted away. He said, “Standing true to those I love has not come cheaply. I do not think I have any more to lose.” In the silence that followed he stared at Beorn’s fire. Like every other man and woman in England, Alvar valued the hearth as a source of heat, giving not only warmth to the body, but drawing to it the company of others that helped to sustain the soul. But sometimes, a hearth alone could not make a home.

Beorn spoke again. “I would not have sat here waiting for any other man to come and tell me my fate. But I willingly waited for you, my friend. So tell me, what must I do? Am I to swing from a rope?”

“Not while I draw breath. You are sent from these shores, forever to be thought of as Nothing. It has fallen to me to witness your leaving, never to come back.”

“I wish to God that I had thought it all through before I brought this shame on my kin.” Beorn sighed. “But I knew it would come to this, even if I hoped otherwise.” A shutter blew back from the window and hammered back and forth as the wind swept round the hall. Beorn sat forward and placed his arms flat on the table. He gave a formal speech. “My hall is dim; God has sent the darkness and the rain, and now I must go to the faraway, where there will be no hearth-fellows. We must all float with the ebb and flow of life, but I wish I could bide here to tell the tale’s end. Have I time to share a drinking horn with you one more time, my beloved friend?”

“A ship lies in the Humber and will make sail upon my word. I will stay here until you leave.”

Beorn drained his cup and the servant leaped forward to refill it. “Leave it man, I will do it. And fetch my horn.” He spoke to Alvar once more. “You do not believe I would leave?”

“I believe that you would go. Your word is always good enough for me. You know why I am here. I am here to make sure that word does not spread too far. Canterbury does not want it known that there has been a threat made upon York.”

Kingston, on the Thames

“I will do to him what Beorn threatened to do to Oswald. I will wring his neck until his eyes burst out… Strip off his wretched skin with my hand-saex and spill hot wax on his heart… Pull out his stammering tongue and nail it to the hearth and grind his bones into tinder…” Never, even on the battlefield, had he been so enraged. It was as if his anger had been simmering in a cauldron for all these years and now the fire had been stoked enough for the whole pot to boil over.

They were in the queen’s bower, well away from the meeting hall, but still Alfreda looked anxiously over her shoulder. When she spoke it was with a voice unknown to him, cracked and hoarse from crying. “My lord, I beg you to still your wrath.”

“What?” Alvar stopped and looked at her. Her eyes were lost in dark circles, painted by the sleepless nights following the death of her husband and protector. Æthelred was pale and frightened and a poor substitute for his father, but no-one in the witan had ever pretended that either of the two princes was ready to be a king. No-one had expected Edgar to die.

Alfreda looked at the floor. “Dunstan said that there must not be another wrangle over the kingship. He said that the land must not be weakened by Edgar’s death, and must not lose that which the king and the Church had made strong.” She lifted her head. “My lord, will you sit down before you wear a hole in the floor? Your limp is worsening, and I need you strong and whole.”

Alvar panted as his journey from shock to anger ended in stunned curiosity. “How was this thing done? Why did no man put a stop to it?”

“Being an anointed queen did me little good, for Dunstan would have no son of mine on the throne. Edgar wore his hair shirt for the sin of Wulfreda, so in Dunstan’s eyes, a son born of that match is worthy to be atheling. Wulfreda was of royal kin so her child is throne-worthy; therefore my son is not. There were not enough who would speak for my son, and too many who would name Edward as their king.” Alfreda tapped her fingertips. “I will reckon them up for you. Oswald stood with Dunstan, and wherever the Dane stands you can be sure that the lord Brandon will be stuck to his side, and he brought the lords of Essex with him.”

Alvar counted too. “But my thegns in the south, Wulf in Bamburgh, all of Mercia, would have stood by Æthelred,” he said. “We all would have followed Edgar’s wishes.”

The queen dropped her gaze again. “Bishop Athelwold stood by us, as did my late father’s Devonshire kin, but…”

“Mercia was not here.” He slammed his fist into his other palm. “No, they saw to it that I was not here. What a witless empty-head I have been. Beorn, of course, could do naught, but Wulf could have ridden south given time.” He looked up as the door opened and he nodded when Siferth came in. “But Wulf was never sent for, was he? And I… I, daft turd that I am, dragged my sorry arse and all my men to Northumbria, stayed there long enough to see Beorn gone from our shores, and for Dunstan to put the king-helm on Edward’s head. God curse him for a word-breaking heap of shit.”

“Uncle Alvar, my lady…”

“Has often had her ears warmed by your uncle’s curses, Siferth; do not worry,” Alfreda said. She put a hand up to push her hair from her face. “Lord Alvar and I have always had an easy way with each other and this will carry on, I am sure, now that we…”

Alvar sat down. “And you, youngling; what will you do now?”

Siferth came to stand behind the queen. “I have sworn to Lord Æthelred, Uncle, as have many here who once were thegns to Edgar. You can sleep restfully to know that my queen and my lord Æthelred are well looked after. We would lay down our lives.”

Lives? He was still some months shy of his fourteenth birthday. “I am glad to hear you swear it, although if I think about it there is not one among you who is old enough to shave. Do not be stirred, I am teasing you. I know you are steadfast. As to your sword skills, well, you were taught by the best.” He grinned at Siferth, noting how the boy had broadened across the shoulders.

Alfreda gave a high-pitched laugh. “Come now, Lord Alvar, this is too much like fatherly pride; it is almost as if Siferth were your own son. And there is no need for such silly talk, for I will be safe enough with y...”

Her mood lurched again and the haunting shadows washed across her face. He wondered if her lighter tone reflected nothing other than a monumental effort to turn his attention back to her and away from Siferth.

She said, “My lord of Mercia, my dearest friend, will you bide here in Wessex with us for a while?”

He looked across at her. Her breathing was easier now, as was his. He shook his head. “My lady, whatever Siferth says, I cannot sleep restfully, and I am not a hound that lies down to have its belly scratched after a kicking.” Alvar bowed low and stalked off.

Dunstan was in the writing-house with Oswald and several scribes, whose hands were stained with vermilion ink. As Lord Alvar crashed into the room the scribes attempted to collect their parchment and leave. Oswald backed two steps nearer to the far wall, his gaze fixed upon Alvar’s sword arm.

Dunstan, though, looked at the intruder and smiled. He opened his mouth and heard his voice ringing out sweetly, lubricated by the hour he had spent this morning singing in the chapel, giving thanks that although his beloved Edgar had gone, at least Alvar’s power had been buried alongside him. “My lord, I know that you have some words for me, but I will speak first, as I fear that there might have been a small misunderstanding.”

“For which you have earned my undying hatred.” Alvar stepped so close to him that Dunstan had to shuffle backwards. “But by my leave, speak on.”

Dunstan swallowed. He bolstered his resolve with the memory that he’d initially crowned Edgar in similarly hurried circumstances, years before, and thus the precedent had been set. “I may be g-guilty of the sin of pride, but I have shown that you, as one man, are not England, nor do you speak for the whole land. There has been no brawling over the kingship, and we of the Church are free to go on with our work as before.” He held out a hand. “I know that Edward is not yet the king that he could be, but I can lead him, as can Bishop Sideman, who has been a good teacher to him all these years. No, my lord, I am glad of how things are, and if I must stand and take a tongue-lashing from you, I say it will have been worth my while.” He shut his mouth and kept his head erect, waiting for the verbal onslaught.

But Alvar stood back, folded his arms, and stared at him, saying nothing. In the silence that followed, Dunstan withdrew his proffered hand and looked across at Oswald, who shook his head and shrugged.

Still Alvar remained silent and they began to fidget; Dunstan fiddling with his sleeve-ends and Oswald with his fingernails.

Alvar spoke at last. “Now what?”

Dunstan struggled to keep his smile from wavering. “M-my lord?”

“Now what will be done?”

The archbishop folded his hands in front of his gown. He had seen a challenge where there was none. Alvar’s question was surprising in its simplicity, but he was happy to explain. “N-now you will swear hold-oath to King Edward, and our lives will g-go on much as before.”
And then it does not matter if you wed Edgar’s widow. For, having sworn to Edward, you cannot then fight on her son’s behalf. I have won, Earl.

“No.”

This time the smile slid away and Dunstan felt his heart hammering. “My lord?”

Alvar stepped closer, looked him in the eye, and spoke in tones barely above a whisper. “That youth is not born of both a king and a queen, and he is a snivelling shit to boot. I will not swear to him. So I shall tell you what is to be done now. Now you will feel the might of Mercia, and you will learn what a strong and worthy king could stop, that a child-king cannot.”

He turned round and pulled the door shut behind him, and the only sound was the echo of the door-slam.

Dunstan stared at the space that Alvar had occupied but a moment before. He said, “Archbishop Oswald, I am left with the feeling that we might have overreached ourselves.”

“Edward is king. There is naught that Alvar can do about that now.”

Dunstan wished he shared his friend’s conviction. “If, or should I say when, he weds the widow Alfreda, he will fight hard in the name of her whelp and if he wins, he will become king himself, in all but name.”

Oswald laid a hand on Dunstan’s arm and the archbishop was surprised by the strength of the grip.

Oswald said, “You and I have never played together at the gaming board. I fear I would beat you, for I know when to hold back and play my last piece.”

Dunstan was tired. “I am sorry, Archbishop, you have lost me…”

“Alvar will not wed the king’s widow. I know that his heart lies elsewhere, and I am going to show him what happens to ungodly women.”

Dunstan shrank back. “Dear God, what has been unleashed this day?”

Oswald said, “Do not worry. He is a beast with sharp teeth, yes, but not cunning. He will be easily snared, and I know how to lure him. And by the time I have dealt with this other woman, Alvar will not dare to wed the queen.” He bowed and quietly left the room.

Dunstan sighed and looked around the room. An empty scriptorium was a rare sight, and the silence was unsettling. The gentle grinding of powder, the schwoop-click of the pen knife against the feather, the tapping of the ink pot, and the scratching of the nib on the vellum, all these were comforting sounds of continuous devotional industry. In one menacing flash, the heart had been ripped from this central core of religious activity, leaving naught but a shattered shell. Dunstan stepped forward to right an upset ink pot and crossed himself.

Part III – Gerīpenung (The Reaping)

Chapter Seventeen AD976

Evesham

The smooth-skinned novice stumbled through the doorway, and the book slipped from his hands. Illuminated pages fluttered to the ground, and the gold lettering glinted in the sunshine. He stared up at the earl, but made no attempt to stand up or to retrieve the book from the mud.

Alvar leaned forward in the saddle and patted his horse’s neck. He looked down at the monk and said, “I can wait while you gather up each leaf, Brother.” More than likely, it was the money from his patronage which had paid for it, but the young man would have no recollection of this earl and would see him as wrecker, not benefactor.

A volley of loud bangs echoed round the courtyard and the young monk scrabbled backwards on his knees.

Alvar said, “It is only the crack of stools and benches being thrown on the fire. Your brothers would rather see the wood burned than someone else have it. You think that I mean you some harm, but I am only here to see to it that you leave.”

The novice remained on his knees, but he began to scrape up the pages. Alvar saw now that the gold leaf illuminated the pages of the bible. “I mean no harm to that, either, or to the walls of this abbey. I would put back what belongs here, that is all.”

More monks came through the doorway, chivvied from the other side by Helmstan. They bunched together in the courtyard and shuffled their feet as if unsure which direction to take, but there was no fear in the older men’s eyes. Like rats running out of a wet ditch. They would find another warm nest soon enough.

Helmstan said, “Wulfgar has gathered the last of them from the church, my lord. Shall I ride a way down the road with them in case they try to come back?”

Wulfgar walked up behind him. “They would not get far.” He stood in front of the group of monks. “Tell your abbot that all the Worcester and Gloucester thegns are on the roads, helping our lord put this land back how it was.”

Alvar turned his head and looked out beyond the gate. Further down the road nearer the river, shouts and screams rose up, the words lost in the air, but the meaning clear. He wrinkled his nose as the thick smoke billowed not just from the bonfire, but from fires which had been set in the village. The wind brought the black clouds; they wafted round the abbey and turned day into night as they passed. He closed his mouth against the taste.

Helmstan said, “The folk here blamed the bad harvest on last year’s fiery-tailed star. They are hungry and have no love for the abbey, where the monks have grown fat on food rents while others starved. Our men, as well as chasing the monks, might be called upon to safeguard them. It might help that they are abroad on the lanes.”

Alvar stared at the road. “Or it might help to blacken our names.”

Wulfgar said, “My lord, I found someone in the church who wishes to speak with you. Shall I bring him hither?”

“No need.” The group of monks parted, and Oswald stepped between them to stand in front of Alvar. “I will not be brought before this man as if I am the law-breaker. I am here. And I would have some answers.”

Wulfgar brandished his sword and waved it close to Oswald’s chin. “Shall I end it here and now, my lord?”

Alvar said, “No. I am not a murderer. All that is done here this day will be lawful.”

Oswald made a snorting sound and gestured with his arm. “You call this lawful? Turning holy men out onto the road?”

“I am giving this land back to those to whom it belonged. I am merely righting a wrong.”

Alvar pulled his horse round and looked down without lowering his head. Oswald was shaking, but whether through anger or cold, Alvar did not care. Another chair went on the fire, and newly fuelled, smoke-disturbed embers floated over them. Each of them squinted, but neither wiped their eyes. Alvar’s cloak hung open.

Oswald pulled his cloak tighter against the wind. “You speak of the law, but you have sent weapon-men out onto the lanes without the king’s leave. And if he knew what you are doing to these holy brothers…”

“Enough.” Alvar sniffed. “For too many years I have heard you say one thing, watched while your hands do another. Edward has no love for, or belief in, the ways of the folk in the old kingdoms. This was something that his father, a great man, understood. As to whether your Edward loves the abbeys, I know not nor care. He is not his father, and his father is not here. What will, or can, Edward do to stop me?”

The tips of Oswald’s ears glowed red. “He is your king.”

Alvar leaned over in the saddle and brought his face nearer to the archbishop’s. “No, he is not my king. He is the thing that you and Dunstan made. And when you stepped forward to put the king-helm on his head, against the wishes of Edgar, you shoved me too far.” He sat up straight.

“Lord Alvar, your elbow…” Oswald knelt down to pick up his mitre from the mud.

Alvar stared at the older man. “You see, Archbishop? It is not hard to put something on a man’s head. It is even less hard to knock it off again.”

Oswald wiped at the headdress. “You have made it unclean.” He lifted his head to glare at the earl. “I hope you are proud now.”

Alvar had to turn away, for his eyes stung from the smoke and were watering. He swallowed; all he could taste was the bitter smoke of the fire. The wind that whipped it up was sharp as it blew round him, and yet he was not cold.

Oswald walked round to stand in front of Alvar’s horse. “You cannot burst into the grounds of an abbey like a wild hound.”

Alvar looked the older man up and down. He flared his nostrils. “But I am a wild hound.” He sniffed again. “And you are no more than a chewed cloth that I have spat out. It is ended.” He said to Wulfgar, “Take him to Worcester and lock him in there.”

“You will burn in hell for the deeds done here this day.”

“Then I will see you by the Devil’s hearth, my lord Archbishop.” Oswald had transformed a cathedral chapter into a monastic priory. Now it would become his prison.

Cheshire 

“Mother, Evesham was only the beginning. He gave the land to his brother’s eldest son, and all the old clergy have been brought back. From there he went to Winchcombe, where he threw out the abbot and all the monks. Then he went on to Deerhurst and Pershore.”

“Has he gone mad?” Káta wrapped her cloak around her body.

“Are you cold? We should go inside.”

She shook her head. “No, I am not cold. It is only that I… And does your father stand with him on this?”

“He does. But Alvar is not mad. He has seethed for years about losing his lands and his rights to them. He worries, too, about the folk who live upon them.”

Káta gripped the edges of her cloak. “There will be an ache in his heart. His loathing for Oswald and Dunstan was well known, but he will be wroth with Edgar, too.”

Siferth stepped nearer. “What do you mean; why would he be wroth with Edgar?”

“For dying.” She looked up, hoping to see a glimpse of sun, but the winter sky was a solid grey. Ice lay like broken glass around the edges of the puddles. She sighed and walked back along the path towards the enclosure gate. Siferth skipped along beside her.

She wanted to ask him about the rumours; that when the abbey at Evesham was attacked, the stones fell and the whole building collapsed. Underneath the stones, the grave of Saint Egwyn had been exposed, and it was said that his skin was as fresh and pink as if he had never died. Stories like these, true or not, served the monks’ cause, not Alvar’s. At such hard times as these, it would not do to have the folk turn against the lords. She stopped and put a hand on Siferth’s arm. “I do not know how it is elsewhere, but here we have had to bulk our dough with pease and beans, or go without bread. I have found folk eating riddled meat and unripe foods. The children have sore skin and eyes, and their gums bleed. If others, like us, have the loosening bowel sickness and they are as weak and hungry… Will they stand by Alvar or will they turn back to the Church?”

He held her hand and they walked on. “They will not turn back to the Church. Yes, many are unwell. Many are starving. But many were also forced to sell their land to the Church for less than it is worth.”

He told her then of the folk-moots, packed full of those men who were now landless. Alvar had heard the pleas of many men whose kin had been coerced into bequeathing their land to the Church, so that any surviving kin would be left with no means of a living when their relatives died.

Siferth stopped on the path in front of her. “You are right, Mother; lots of folk think that the world is ending, and maybe they think it is God’s doing, but the food rents owed to the Church make their hardships worse.” He laid his hands on her shoulders. “These folk look to Alvar to give them back their lands and rights. And who will stop him now? The monks mourn Edgar, but they must have thought that Alvar’s power would also die with him. Yet Alvar has the weapon-men behind him, and he is the only one with the skill to lead them. Oswald is locked up in Worcester, and no man can say how Edward will blow.”

Oswald locked up in Worcester
.
Thank God. Hunger was not the only demon stirring the folk. Comets and the death of kings terrified everyone; none more so than dear Wulfsige the priest, who, after all these years, had lost courage and gone running to the bishop of Lichfield with his tales. His departure was soon followed by the arrival of a deputation from the bishop of Worcester, demanding to know the provenance of her scar, and making clear their knowledge of her association with the earl, with whom she was overheard conversing at Chester, in what they called an over-familiar manner. She could not recall, but they said there was a monk who knocked into Alvar, who had heard their every word. The things of which they spoke had happened so long ago, but Edgar’s death was like slackened reins, and all horses were free now to run after years at the tether. News of the attacks on Evesham and elsewhere sent her inquisitors scuttling back, with naught from her lips to damn her, the folk who lived under her protection, or her loved ones. And now that Oswald had been incarcerated, she could breathe a little more freely.

Her son was smiling, and his flushed cheeks were not due to the cold weather alone. She said, “You speak as if it is a game. You are barely fifteen and you have your whole life still to live. But the earl will be known forever as a man who harries monasteries. When men have food once more in their bellies, will they still follow him then?”

A gust of wind blew across the enclosure and the paddock gate banged against its post. Káta stepped from his grasp to shut it. “This needs to be tied with twine. I will tell Burgred to fettle it.” The wood banged against her fingers. “Aah!” Why did knocks always smart more when the hand was cold to begin with? She wrestled with the gate and in a low voice she said, “String will not do. Too many things have come loose that cannot be tied together.”

A drop of moisture bubbled at the end of Siferth’s nose. He sniffed it away. “You worry too much about Uncle’s good name. I was there, Mother, at Ely, with the queen. I heard Bishop Athelwold speak of him as a great patron of Abingdon and Glastonbury. Think on this: the abbeys that he has laid to waste all belong to Oswald.”

Káta dredged her knowledge of the southern part of Mercia and brushed imaginary dirt from her hands. “Well then, this madness will soon blow itself out, for there are not many more of Oswald’s houses left for him to go at with his cudgel.” She looked at him, noting the sheepish expression. “What?”