Read Online Alvar the Kingmaker by Annie Whitehead - Free Book Online
Authors: Annie Whitehead
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fraud. Even here in London, away from his brother Brock and wearing his own shoes, he was unsure of his footing. On the battlefield, he knew where to place each step, to keep his balance as he wielded his weapons, but this was new, requiring not a sharp spear point but a sharp mind, and it seemed a long journey from the training yard to the inner circle of government. Dunstan stood up and Alvar sat forward, ready to listen.
Bishop Dunstan cleared his throat and the chattering subsided. “My lords,” he raised his sleeve to wipe away spittle, “It is the wish of our b-b-beloved archbishop of Canterbury that I speak for him about something which has lain heavy on our hearts and minds.”
Alvar looked with all the others to the seat by the hearth. The archbishop gripped his fur cloak around his shrunken frame like a second skin. His head, bald except for the tufts of hair which grew seemingly from his ears, hung forward as if it really were too heavy for his neck to bear the weight. His eyes gleamed vital, but cold.
Dunstan said, “It grieves us that the king in Wessex, the Fairchild, is living sinfully with a wife to whom his kinship is too near. Therefore we have sent to his Holiness, the pope, to have the match undone.”
“What?” Alvar gripped the edge of the table and sat up straight. A cup tottered and he reached out to hold it, choked, round its stem. He addressed Edgar. “Lord King, you cannot. Theirs is a love match.” Was this really the business of grown men who thought to rule a kingdom? “What good will be done by this heartlessness?”
Edgar’s breathing was rapid and shallow but he kept his gaze fixed on the far wall. Alvar shook his head and stared at the bishop.
Dunstan prepared himself for speech once more. He dropped his jaw and puffed out shots of breath. “Lewdness cannot be sanctioned. We are all of one mind.”
Alvar looked around the room for verification of this assertion, but only the East Anglians and the churchmen sat upright, alert and interested, while the rest of the witan members were sitting with heads bowed, or stared at the ceiling, or gazed out of the window, as if any sight were preferable to looking at Dunstan and being drawn into his scheme. All of one mind?
Alvar slammed his palms down on the table. “Are we? It seems that most men here think that for the Fairchild to lose half a kingdom was enough. I did not think the Church would needlessly seek to harm him further.”
Elwood of Ramsey said, “You are new to the ways of the witan so I will tell you that we do not speak thus to our beloved bishops. You should take care, lest you earn yourself a bad name.”
“For what; plain-speaking?” Alvar looked at Dunstan, hoping that the bishop would answer his earlier question.
Dunstan held his hands out as if there were nothing more to be said or done.
Alvar persisted. “But what will become of his young wife; does she have land of her own? What has she to do with a fight between two brothers? She does not even have any children to bring her comfort in her loneliness.”
Elwood let slip a small smile, as if victorious. “And that is the point…” He stopped and composed his features into a scowl. “That is a good thing. She is no better than a whore. And you are a whore-monger if you speak on her behalf.”
“I take it you think that she will be better clothed in widow’s weeds?” Alvar glared at Elwood’s brothers, both of whom were nodding emphatically.
The second-eldest, the lord of Thetford, said, “The Fairchild must give her up.”
Brandon, the youngest, said, “It must be as my brother says.” His smooth cheeks glowed and he clenched his fists, but his gaze remained fixed downwards. His pale long lashes beat quickly below purplish lids.
Alvar ground his back teeth together and, under the table, out of sight, his hands clenched and unclenched while his foot tapped in quick beats upon the floor. This was not what he came for; this was not what was
Bishop Dunstan cleared his throat and the chattering subsided. “My lords,” he raised his sleeve to wipe away spittle, “It is the wish of our b-b-beloved archbishop of Canterbury that I speak for him about something which has lain heavy on our hearts and minds.”
Alvar looked with all the others to the seat by the hearth. The archbishop gripped his fur cloak around his shrunken frame like a second skin. His head, bald except for the tufts of hair which grew seemingly from his ears, hung forward as if it really were too heavy for his neck to bear the weight. His eyes gleamed vital, but cold.
Dunstan said, “It grieves us that the king in Wessex, the Fairchild, is living sinfully with a wife to whom his kinship is too near. Therefore we have sent to his Holiness, the pope, to have the match undone.”
“What?” Alvar gripped the edge of the table and sat up straight. A cup tottered and he reached out to hold it, choked, round its stem. He addressed Edgar. “Lord King, you cannot. Theirs is a love match.” Was this really the business of grown men who thought to rule a kingdom? “What good will be done by this heartlessness?”
Edgar’s breathing was rapid and shallow but he kept his gaze fixed on the far wall. Alvar shook his head and stared at the bishop.
Dunstan prepared himself for speech once more. He dropped his jaw and puffed out shots of breath. “Lewdness cannot be sanctioned. We are all of one mind.”
Alvar looked around the room for verification of this assertion, but only the East Anglians and the churchmen sat upright, alert and interested, while the rest of the witan members were sitting with heads bowed, or stared at the ceiling, or gazed out of the window, as if any sight were preferable to looking at Dunstan and being drawn into his scheme. All of one mind?
Alvar slammed his palms down on the table. “Are we? It seems that most men here think that for the Fairchild to lose half a kingdom was enough. I did not think the Church would needlessly seek to harm him further.”
Elwood of Ramsey said, “You are new to the ways of the witan so I will tell you that we do not speak thus to our beloved bishops. You should take care, lest you earn yourself a bad name.”
“For what; plain-speaking?” Alvar looked at Dunstan, hoping that the bishop would answer his earlier question.
Dunstan held his hands out as if there were nothing more to be said or done.
Alvar persisted. “But what will become of his young wife; does she have land of her own? What has she to do with a fight between two brothers? She does not even have any children to bring her comfort in her loneliness.”
Elwood let slip a small smile, as if victorious. “And that is the point…” He stopped and composed his features into a scowl. “That is a good thing. She is no better than a whore. And you are a whore-monger if you speak on her behalf.”
“I take it you think that she will be better clothed in widow’s weeds?” Alvar glared at Elwood’s brothers, both of whom were nodding emphatically.
The second-eldest, the lord of Thetford, said, “The Fairchild must give her up.”
Brandon, the youngest, said, “It must be as my brother says.” His smooth cheeks glowed and he clenched his fists, but his gaze remained fixed downwards. His pale long lashes beat quickly below purplish lids.
Alvar ground his back teeth together and, under the table, out of sight, his hands clenched and unclenched while his foot tapped in quick beats upon the floor. This was not what he came for; this was not what was
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