Alvar the Kingmaker Read Free Page A

have been made a great lord.”
    Alvar chuckled. “You will need someone to lean on when you can no longer walk straight. Besides,” he nodded towards the thegns of southern Mercia, “They are my men now but I am not your lord, Cheshire -man.”
    The teasing insult induced the expected snort of contempt from Helmstan. “Cheshire? There was never a shire of Cheshire. It was a name made up by Wessex when their kings swallowed our land. My lands around Chester were part of the kingdom of Mercia in better days gone by.” He slurped some more ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Never mind though. Now that you are lord of your father’s demesne…”
    Alvar settled back, caught in his own trap and prepared to be snared for some time. Helmstan would not let the opportunity pass to voice his thoughts about the diminished ancient kingdom of Mercia, now governed not by its own kings but by earls appointed by Wessex. Alvar, looking up, wondered which was the greater: the oak beams holding up the roof, or the number of times that Helmstan had lamented the loss of Mercian autonomy.
    “And now we can work together to get back all the land that was stolen from the old kingdom. The king has given you back your father’s lands, but what of the fenland?  That, too, once belonged to Mercia.”
    Alvar refrained from scoffing at the mention of the boggy marshland, but not with ease, for he could not imagine who in his right mind would wish for control of that wind-ravaged swamp. He laid a hand gently on his friend’s arm. “Would that I had one tenth of your passion for the old kingdom of Mercia, but even though I grew up there, the truth is that I took the lands only because they were my father’s. I wish merely to do my duty by keeping the Welsh out and the folk safe within.” He squeezed Helmstan’s arm and released it. “Put away your dreams for your homeland for a while. Here comes the food.”
    Helmstan’s mouth hung open, an unspoken nationalist protest doubtless waiting to issue forth, but he hesitated and evidently thought better of it, grabbing the drinking horn instead.
    Alvar smiled and waited, looking around the hall while the servants knelt down with the spit-roasted lamb, and the diners took pieces of meat from the serving-plates.
    Where once the wall-hangings shone with gold weaving, the embroidery was now snagged and faded. Alvar wrinkled his nose at the smell of tallow candles where beeswax should have burned. He looked down. The linen tablecloth was threadbare in places. There was bread, but it was ordinary barley bread and there seemed too much of it and now Alvar knew why, because the meat was meagre in portion and the serving-platters were soon empty. If the Fairchild did not care to show his wealth as a lord with plenty, he could not hope for men to love and follow him.
    Alvar’s plate was full and the servants melted away. He eschewed the dual purpose prong-handled spoon in favour of his own hand-knife. He stroked the silver decoration on the blunt side of his knife, winding his finger along the smith’s engraving, ‘ Gosfrith made me’ , and gazed without focus as he gathered his thoughts. As he felt again the constricting pressure of the ornate arm ring, Alvar knew exactly what the Fairchild was hoping. Never had so many men been made earls in such a short time. The Fairchild was too young to have proven himself politically and it was obviously his intention to buy the nobles and thereby bind them to him. Might this be the only reason that Alvar had been given his father’s lands? It was possible; Helmstan was right when he said that under the previous kings, Mercia and Mercian lords had not done well out of the expansion of Wessex, so there must be a reason if their fortunes were suddenly to rise. Well, Alvar might have taken the bait, but it didn’t mean that he had to be caught in the net. The king needed guidance, but Mercia needed a worthy lord, and that meant an opportunity