Alvar the Kingmaker (38 page)

Flanked by the two lead horses, she had no choice but to turn when they did. The rider of the black stallion to her left leaned over and said, “I do not know why you are smiling. If we cannot get you to London, then we will do it here.”

Káta could not look at him but stared at the ground, at a tiny patch of earth where four browned blades of grass stood proud of the dry, sand-like mud. The space between each blade was too vast, as if the earth were gradually balding. Káta continued to focus on the tiny area, while the icy shard of terror worked its chill all the way down her spine.

The rider of the black stallion called out to the monk. “We will have to find another way round. If not…”

If not, then what? Had he made a gesture, bringing his finger across his throat? Káta tried to swallow, but her mouth felt as if she had used her tongue to sweep the hall floor.

The monk urged his horse forward; she heard the hooves moving and his voice became louder, nearer. “My lord is the archbishop of York and the bishop of Worcester. He bade me bring this woman to trial, no more or less than that. Let us see what lies beyond that grove.”

Káta kept her head bowed, but glanced up. To the west of the blocked pathway through the woods was a small cluster of trees that stood slightly apart from the rest. Beyond them lay the road to Oakhurst. Inhaling deeply in a bid to still the noise from her pounding heart, she wondered if, that way, also lay her rescue. Shuffling slowly between the two great beasts she found that her fear was punctuated by the most prosaic thoughts, beginning with the awareness that, up close, horses stank. Then she wondered idly who would watch the stew pot, and how long it would take before the untended cooking fire caught hold and sent the kitchen up in flames. When Gytha returned from visiting family in Northampton, would she find Ashleigh razed to the ground? Lost thus in a diversionary reverie, she was slow to the realisation that the henchman on the stallion had stopped to dismount. He came round between the horses and grabbed her forearm, pulling her out into the relatively fresh air. She breathed deeply, ridiculously pleased to be away from the smelly flanks. But the man’s face told her all she needed to know about his plan. The monk might be intent on sticking fast to the exact specification of Oswald’s orders, but this man was clearly a little more enthusiastic about the remit. Bored by the delay, he no doubt sought to salvage some fun from the day. He stretched his mouth into a horrible line, part smile, part grimace, and marched over to the nearest tree, striding so forcefully that she had to scrabble into a run to keep from stumbling.

The monk began to shout. “I will not be part of this. Further, I will not answer for it. This is not what was asked of us.”

But though the monk would not be part of it, it was clear that he would expend no effort to help her either. Horribly fixed in the present, with no thoughts of domestic detail to distract her, Káta was despondently aware of the sound of the rest of the escort galloping away, and she knew that this was the point at which her life would end, here against this oak tree, and that this man’s contorted face, etched with pleasure and hatred, would be the last she would see.

He reached the tree, turned on his heel and threw her round, so that her back smashed against the trunk. He held one hand across her throat whilst he fumbled at his belt for something. Káta closed her eyes. Either he was intent on raping her first, or he was reaching for his hand-saex. Whichever it was, she had no wish to see.

She heard something odd, thundering, but not hooves. Her assailant uttered an odd grunt of a sound and jerked forward, pressing his weight against her. She opened her eyes and was aware of a flash of something black and long. Widening her eyes, she saw the light brown bumps along its shaft, where the spikes of Hild’s blackthorn stick had long ago been cut off and smoothed. Hild raised the knobbly stick high, brought it down in a wide arc and struck again, this time with so much force that the man slipped away sideways and fell to the ground. Before Káta could think about wriggling free, she heard a high-pitched song and saw a glint of something shiny, and then she looked down to see Leofsige’s cleaver embedded in her attacker’s back. Now her mind began to dwell again on stupid details that came flooding back into her thoughts, and she stared, wondering why there was no blood oozing from the sides of the blade.

Hild stepped forward and gathered Káta into her arms. Sobbing, she repeated, “My lady, oh my lady, my lady,” and Káta, still focusing on the mundane, thought it peculiar that her own eyes remained dry.

Leofsige put his huge foot on the corpse and tugged the meat cleaver free.

The blood began to ooze. It did not pump, as it would from a living body, but spilled its all in a steady flow, much as an upturned jug would empty its contents and then stop. Káta watched it for a while and then shook her head. “What must you think of me, that I did not thank you straight away for my life. Dear friends, how can I ever repay you?”

Leofsige continued to wipe the blood-sticky blade with the edge of his tunic. Without looking up, he said, “We love you, Lady, and would die for you. Now, word must be sent to Lord Helmstan.”

It was as if she suddenly thawed. The freezing fear had been banished and now came the fire of anger. “No! He must never be told. If he knows, he will come home and the lord Alvar will come too. I will not be used as bait to turn them from their course.” She could not even begin to contemplate which of them would be the most angry. She must endure in silence, because she knew how much Alvar had already given up and she would not suffer to see him lose any more, not on her account. Furthermore, he would feel guilty if he knew that his duty had taken Helmstan away from her at such a time; the man seemed to take responsibility for the wellbeing of the whole world. She did not want that on her conscience, she who was not his wife and all the more dangerous to him because of it. And how would it all be explained to Helmstan? She would die before she caused him any pain, or one second of doubting her love. “Never tell them, never. Do you understand me?”

Hild’s arms were upon hers and the woman was making shushing noises as if soothing a teething child. Káta paused for breath and only then did she feel the tears running down her cheeks, the snot in her nose, and the scratchy feeling at the back of her throat that indicated how loudly she had been shouting. She sank to her knees, still supported by Hild who knelt with her, and she rocked back and forth, permitting the tears to flow. “They must not know, they must not know.”

East Anglia 

The wind was incessant and Alvar was growing tired of the endless need to flick his hair away from his eyes and mouth. Crouched beneath his blanket, he looked out across the boggy, featureless landscape and grunted. “I wish I could stop the wind with my shield and push it back whence it came.”

“The folk here call it an idle wind, that does not bend but goes right through.” Wulfgar smiled his crooked smile and hitched his blanket up tighter round his shoulders. Nodding at the sodden coverlet he said, “This wool has been my wind-shield since we got here and it is soaked through. Are you sure you want this land back? You have only to say the word and I will turn this whole fyrd about, and we can be back in my dale by nightfall.” He rubbed his back.

“Too many years have passed for you to tell me now that you have no belly for a fight.” It was a teasing comment, of the type used by them all to keep spirits up, yet Alvar could not look his friend in the eye; he was not ready to admit that the fire in his own belly had not long since been extinguished.

Helmstan stepped from his tent. “I would like to get on with it. It may be a godforsaken marsh, but by rights it is Mercian land and it is time we took it back.”

“The lingering might soon be at an end. Look to the south.”

Wulfgar and Alvar stood up and discarded the woollen blankets. Awareness grew among the other men and they gathered round their leaders. The East Anglian fyrd was approaching from the direction of Ramsey. The richly clothed, well-equipped noblemen were easy to pick out but Alvar, his eyesight not as sharp as in his youth, squinted to make out the identity of the bishop who was riding with them. “It is Athelwold; he must have been at Ely when we sent that monk there to find Brandon.” He kicked dirt over the fire. “I give them this; they have brighter wits than I thought.” If the East Anglians were determined to avoid a battle, they could have done worse than bring with them the one holy man for whom Alvar might have lowered his weapons. However, it was unnecessary, for he had no intention of wielding his sword or his spear. He had already decided to bring things to a conclusion; this was merely a show of strength to complete the restoration of lands to the secular lords, which he considered to be the first and best step to helping the hungry, by giving them back the means to scratch a living from the land. The army at his back had gathered from a different source than his own anger and attached itself to him like a nest of wasps growing larger and larger. He would use the strength of numbers to wrest back the land, but from here it was his plan to seek out Edward’s council and begin to extract order from chaos. Meanwhile, like two cock birds, he and the opposing forces must display their feathers and crow their challenges.

The East Anglian fyrdsmen came to a halt and their leaders moved their mounts ten paces forward. Alvar grabbed his helm.

“My lord, your byrnie?” Wulfgar held out Alvar’s mail coat.

Alvar took the heavy body armour from him and put it on, giving Wulfgar his helm to hold while he slid the mail on over his head. The other thegns followed suit, whilst the wealthier freemen fastened up their padded jackets and picked up their spears. A horse-thegn brought Alvar’s stallion. He mounted up and urged the animal forward. Behind him, his army clanked and rattled as it followed him.

He led his men across the marshy ground, until the two delegations were close enough to exchange words. Here, he called his men to a halt and copied the East Anglians, as he and his leading thegns also moved forward by ten paces. Behind him, his soldiers formed a colourful shield wall that painted the bare landscape, while the banners snapped back and forth in the wind.

The lord of Thetford, Brandon’s elder brother, was the first to speak. “You must put an end to this madness. Stop threatening God’s churches, and leave these lands at once. If you do not go, we will drive you from here.”

Alvar looked at him for a moment, but spoke only to his friend. “Lord Bishop, I am sorry that you have been brought here to witness my deeds. I would have you know that I do not bring this fight to God, or those who serve Him, only to those who would hide behind His name.”

Athelwold opened his mouth but his words flew away with the buffeting wind. He brought his horse forward until he was level with Alvar. “I had thought to find you fully wroth, swinging your weapons and bent on doing harm. But I can see in your eyes, my lord, that your temper has blown itself out.” He lifted his arm. “You must go now to the queen, for the lady Alfreda has need of a friend. And our young king is in need of wise words from a man who can teach him.” He leaned in closer. “You know as well as I do that the folk thrown off church lands are not the only ones who are starving. We should do naught to make any man’s burden heavier.” He paused, as if considering whether he had said enough to press his point. “You hold sway over this land. All are watching you, waiting to see what you will do next.” He gave a sad smile.

Behind them, Brandon leaned forward to catch the bishop’s words. He nodded, his head bobbing like a delicate flower-head in the wind. “Yes, yes, you must go back. Do not bring shame to your rank of earl.”

Alvar smiled at Athelwold, marvelling that one so aged could still sit so firmly astride a horse. In tones just loud enough for the bishop to hear, he said, “Your words are well meant, but not needed. You speak my thoughts. But allow me one last boast?”

He lifted his head and shouted across to Brandon. “The lord of East Anglia is so keen to see my back. I can only guess that he is frightened to fight me.”

He sniffed and looked around him. Wulfgar was right when he said that with a hard ride they could all be sleeping in Mercian beds come nightfall. He said, “Peterborough can wait. My men will leave and you may tell the brothers within that they are free to go about their day’s work with no fear.” He moved his horse forward and spoke so that only Athelwold could hear. “I have been riding long and hard, only to come to this wilderness. It is as if the glee-man teases me with his hiding games; I feel that he has opened his hands and they are empty.”

Athelwold reached out and patted Alvar’s hand. “You have not found what you sought, my son. Nevertheless, your wrath is quenched, and God will lead you to the right path now.”

Alvar put a hand to his stomach. “Odd, but I feel hunger. I have not craved food nor slaked my thirst for so long. But now…”

“You were numbed by a death, and now your body is reminding you that the death was not your own. Go home. Live. Put this kingdom back together.”

Athelwold turned his horse and as he drew level, Brandon and Thetford pulled on their reins and moved back towards their men. Alvar, Wulfgar and Helmstan turned their horses back towards their camp.

They drew level with the ranks and Wulfgar leaned over to set the news murmuring along the line. Cupped hands sent the whisper through the throng, but behind the shield wall, Godere, a thegn of Chester, shouted out.

“No! This land is Mercian and we will have it.” He leaped onto his horse and rushed to meet them, his sword unsheathed.