Free Alvar the Kingmaker by Annie Whitehead Page B

the weaving until another day, can I not?”
    In the hall, she checked the floor and sniffed to ascertain the blend of dried herbs that Gytha had sprinkled around. She walked the length of the room to the private chamber beyond the dais. Here, strewn across the bed, her sewing tasks also awaited completion. She selected a blue woollen tunic of Helmstan’s, ripped during a recent hunt, and a linen undershirt whose stitching had come apart. She picked up her sewing box and collected a stool from the hall. Outside, she put the stool at the edge of the morning shadow, where she would not have to keep moving with the westward shifting sun.
    When the rip was mended, she held up the tunic to inspect her stitching. The dogs began to bark at raised voices, borne on the wind from the Chester road. Káta leaned over to look through the open gateway and stood up. Burgred was running towards the enclosure and she thrust the mending onto the stool. Faster than Burgred could run from the fields, Helmstan’s horse was galloping along the lane and Káta reached up to pat her veil tidy. Helmstan turned the horse across the corner of the field and brought the beast to a halt beyond the bell tower. Burgred came alongside him and leaned over, one hand on the fence and the other on his knee as he panted. Helmstan slipped from the horse and handed the reins to Burgred, who lifted his hand but not his head as he fought to find his breath. Helmstan shuffled towards the hall in an exaggerated walk as he eased his legs after the long ride. Káta stepped forward. He scooped her up in a bear’s embrace, spinning her round before he set her down and stepped back.
    “Let me look at you, woman. You seem well?” He looked down.
    She laced her fingers together across her belly and gave a small shake of her head. She coughed and raised her chin. “I am well. And the better for seeing you home again.” She touched his cheek, scared to do more, unsure of how much to show that she had missed him. “Come inside my lord, you are smeared with dirt from the road, and you must be thirsty after your ride.”
    In the hall he sat down, and she picked up a jug of ale from the table by the wall. The once pretty Stamford pottery she had brought from her old home was shabby, the glazed red lines of decoration faded and crackled. She ran her finger along the chipped edge of the cup and presented the good side to her lord. “Will you bide at home a little longer this time?” She fetched a footstool and set it in front of his chair.
    He put his feet up, one crossed over the other, sat back, and wiped at his face with his sleeve. “I shall be home a while now, even until the harvest. The next meeting is that of the borough at Chester so I will be there and back in a day. Then the hundred-moot is at Twemlow, not even half a day’s ride. After that the Michaelmas shire-moot is at Chester also, and by then we shall have Burgred’s fat sheep to eat.” He set the cup down on the table, put his feet flat to the floor again and patted his knees. “Come, do not be shy.”
    She hitched up her dress to loosen it from her hips and tried to balance on his lap. Shifting her weight first onto one thigh, she then tried to spread it over two, but only succeeded in wobbling over the dip between his thigh muscles. She put her arm round his neck to steady herself, but her cheek brushed his unshaven chin and she sat forward once more and reached with pointed toes onto the floor to anchor there instead.
    “Tell me your tidings,” he said.
    She ticked off the items with her fingers. “Sigeberht over at Barwick has a new milch cow and Burgred’s girl who went to Chester, she gave birth to a… Oh, you cannot wish to hear all our dull tales. Tell me what you have seen while you have been away.”
    He sat back in the chair, pulling her back with him and allowing her to lay her head against his chest. “The Fairchild is still king of Wessex, but his grip even there is weak. I hear that