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meeting, raw and untried, he had perhaps spoken too much and too harshly, and it was probably not a good idea to antagonise the churchmen, but he must step in and make sure that Edgar was not influenced too much by the Church’s self-interest. Although he was still feeling light-headed, Alvar knew that there was no more time for wondering how it was that he had been picked up, spun round and placed in this absurd situation. He had sworn loyalty to Edgar, his king had asked for his service, and now Alvar knew that he must use more than his sword arm in the giving of it. He raised his head as the bell from the chapel broke into the stillness as it called those in the hall to compline. Alvar sprang to his feet.
    He paused in the doorway as Elwood of Ramsey and his youngest brother walked by in silence on their way to the chapel.
    Alvar, affable mood restored, called out after them. “Why so grim, my lords; have you so much to confess that you have forgotten how to smile?”
    Elwood laid a hand on his brother’s arm, turned and retraced his steps until he was level with the entrance to the chamber. He lifted his chin and stared at Alvar through eyes drawn into nearly shut lines. “Oh I can bare my teeth, my lord, as I think you witnessed in the meeting. You saw what we did this day and we have barely begun. You are a warrior in an age of peace, and it is we swift-witted men who are the strong ones now.”
    Alvar shrugged. “There will still be a need for warriors if the Vikings ever come back. Meanwhile, I’ll do whatever England needs.”
    “You still do not understand, do you? This is not about England; this is about us and you.”
    The brightness of Alvar’s mood dimmed once more. Ever since the coronation debacle at Cheddar and his speedy reassessment of the Fairchild, he had learned to value those who based their judgements on what they saw, not what they heard. “At least let me give you a reason to hate me,” he said. But then he sniffed. “Although, having seen your choice of friends, I must say that I am beginning to be glad that you do not count me amongst them.”
    Elwood stepped closer, his breathing rapid and shallow. “I will make friends where I need to until I get back what you stole from me.”
    Alvar was puzzled by his comment, and the fact that even now the man’s breath smelled oddly fresh. What had he been drinking all day if not the ale? And what kind of a man eschewed the king’s ale at the king’s table in the king’s hall where every other man, including the king, was more than comfortable in his drunkenness?
    Elwood stalked back down the corridor and his younger brother waited until he was back alongside him before he dared to scowl.
    Abbot Athelwold, Edgar’s former tutor, came quietly along the corridor and stopped in the doorway. Like Bishop Dunstan he was nearing his fifties, but, as he lifted the corners of his mouth, the skin between his dark eyes and high cheekbones remained smooth and unwrinkled. His hair was only barely flecked with grey and still dominated by fine strands that shone golden brown in the hearth-light.
    Athelwold smiled. “I take it that you are not now coming to night-song, my lord?” He shuffled past, turned and said, “I understand, but take care. You are not the only son of a great man with a place at the king’s side, and you are not the only one with a yearning to keep it.”
    Alvar stood in the doorway after the abbot had departed, silently paying him the courtesy of considering what he had said, because as tutor to the East Anglian brood he must have based his statement on personal knowledge. But whilst he could acknowledge the warning, there was little Alvar could do to act upon it. What was it that Elwood thought had been stolen; the land which Alvar’s father had held, or perhaps he perceived the theft of Edgar himself? Alvar was stacking up enemies without trying too hard and his briefly found optimism for his new role was now swiftly waning. He