Alvar the Kingmaker Read Online Free Page A

the bed until her breath came easily again. Letting go of the bed, she shuffled forward, still kneeling, and lifted the lid of her clothes chest, reaching around until she found one of the linens usually reserved for her monthly bleed. Folding it small, she held it to her nose, dabbing and inspecting until the flow ceased. Outside, the raised voices and increased footfall indicated that folk were moving along to the feast hall. Standing slowly she smoothed her kirtle and stepped carefully to the door. Squinting into the darkening gloom, her lower body still on the inner side of the door, she flapped a wave to one of her serving-women, and pointed to her veil, gesticulating that she needed help to tidy it. She shrank back around the door.
    Her woman came to re-wrap her headdress but she worked in silence. Alfreda sat helpfully rigid while the woman rearranged the swathe of cloth, but did nothing to encourage any conversation. The servants on the estate were all deferential, but Alfreda was sure that this woman’s quiet reverence was a result of pity. She needed no confirmation by drawing the woman into dialogue.
    Dressed and no longer dishevelled, at least in appearance, she made her way to the hall, still unsure what had caused Elwood’s latest bout of anger. Servants bobbed their heads, but she had no words for them either. At an age when most women of her standing would be running their own household, she was miserably aware that there were no keys hanging from her belt. The women were not hers to command, nor could they be her friends. Not that she needed any words, for as soon as they had nodded their obeisance, they turned away. The only armour she had was to deflect the hurt with the thought that, key-holder or not, she was of higher status than they were and she had no need of their pity. Lifting her kirtle hem with one hand, she quickened her pace and walked on, her chin raised and her free hand placed defensively across her chest.
    Ahead of her, Elwood’s two younger brothers were walking with Prince Edgar, their foster-brother. They strode in a relaxed manner, arms draped across shoulders, comfortable and familiar. Laughter rose up, in response, she assumed, to bawdy jokes. She slowed her pace, reluctant to catch up with them, but, as if she had not borne enough, the Devil chose this moment to turn Edgar’s head and he disengaged himself from the pack and hung back, allowing the brothers to walk on while he waited for her to draw level. He fell into step beside Alfreda and, even though she had nothing to say to him, he whistled softly, appearing not to mind the silence.
    She remained mute, hoping to bore him away, but he stopped whistling and said, “I would never use you so ill. He should not do it.”
    She missed a step and stumbled as her heart began to thump against her chest. Shame then gave way to indignation. “How can you speak so, yet keep these brothers as your friends?”
    He shrugged. “I am not answerable for the behaviour of others. All I am saying is that I would not do it.” He lengthened his stride and caught up with the others.
    Alfreda stared after him and embarrassment warmed her veins once more. But then she began to muse on his words. Could he put a stop to it, if he wanted to? He was certainly influential; he was the son of one king, the brother of another. When his father died, his uncle became king and Edgar, then a tiny infant, was sent here to East Anglia to be fostered in the household of the most powerful noble in the land. Now his uncle was dead, his elder brother was king and Edgar was heir to the throne. But he was still a child, a mere boy of thirteen. And what could a boy possibly do to help her?
    Never in the twelve months she had been living on the Isle of Ramsey had she failed to be overwhelmed by the opulence of the mead-hall. She held her breath as she walked through the doorway, her gaze drawn to its great oak frame where carved wolf heads appeared to guard the