Alvar the Kingmaker Read Free Page B

for Alvar to prove himself to a dead father.
    The hall door opened and the Fairchild sauntered to his seat, but took care to settle his young wife in her chair before sitting down himself. The noise levels rose again as those already seated resumed their meal. The Fairchild took a pitcher of wine from the servant hovering by his chair and served his consort, a gesture at odds with tradition, where the lady of the house personally served the guests. She smiled and held his gaze while he poured, leaning her head towards his chest and stroking his free arm. As Alvar watched the newlyweds it occurred to him that despite their callowness and taste for scandal, they were in love.
    Alvar became aware of movement further along the head table as a figure rose unsteadily to his feet. Abbot Dunstan’s lower lip hinged up and down as he prepared to speak. “M-m-my lord King, I would be doing less than my d-duty to God and Church if I did not sp-speak out.”
    Alvar looked down at his fingernails. Dunstan had clearly not put the earlier incident behind him; his stammer was worse than usual and Alvar felt unable to continue being eyewitness to his discomfort.
    The abbot continued. “Today I have seen much land gifted away. Yet the late king bequeathed lands to certain abbeys and they have not received them.” Stumbling on, he said, “Furthermore, the late king’s widow has also b-been deprived of lands which were willed to her by the king.” Snatching a breath too short to allow the Fairchild to speak in the pause, he said, “And the king’s b-burial itself was unlawful…”
    Alvar looked up.
    The Fairchild did not move, but sat with arms loosely by his sides. A slight twitch of his shoulder suggested that the king still had one hand on his wife’s knee. The Fairchild’s expression gave nothing away, unless it was boredom. Indeed, as he opened his mouth to speak, his jaw dropped as if he were stifling a yawn. “So, Abbot… On my crowning-day, you begin by threatening me with hell and now you call me a thief. Yes, the late king bequeathed many lands and treasures, some of which seem to have found their way into your hands when they should have come to me. I say that it is you, Dunstan, lowly abbot, who is the thief.”
    There was a pause, and then Dunstan spoke, his voice shrill. “I am steadfast and true. I was a faithful servant to the late king.”
    “I am not he. And you have stolen from me.”
    Dunstan stood his ground, but his eyebrows drew together in a frown, his brave anger giving way to dismay. “N-not true. Those lands belong to the Church.”
    The Fairchild placed his hands on the table, pushed himself upright and stared at Dunstan. “You are a liar and you will give back all that you have stolen. As for my uncle the king’s burial, it is better that he was laid to rest in Winchester, for I would not wish you to profit from him in death as you did in life. Do not pretend that your abbey would be the poorer for having a king buried there.”
    “B-but it was not lawful. The king wished to be buried at Glastonbury. That was not my whim, but the written will of the king. How could you believe that I would seek to b-benefit from such a burial?”
    “Abbot, I know that you will not, for I am sending you from these lands. No, do not speak another word, for I have had my fill of your stammering sermons. First you dare to tell me that I have withheld lands from the abbeys. Then you dare to say that I have robbed a grieving widow. Then you seek to dig up the king’s body, not yet cold, and take it to your own abbey. Get you gone, wretched abbot, before I tell all those who do not already know how you tried to shame me earlier this day. Get you gone from my hall and my lands.”
    Abbot Dunstan’s face shone red and moist. Alvar uncrossed his legs and shifted further back into his chair, discomfited by the Fairchild’s clumsy attempt to assert his authority. Dunstan had served the boy’s predecessors wisely and