Alvar the Kingmaker Read Online Free PDF Page B

held the shield aloft. A counter-thrust was of little use as the spearman would simply step back, keeping the longer length of his weapon between them. Armed with only his shorter sword, Alvar would not be able to get close. When the Welshman hefted his spear back, ready to thrust again, Alvar dropped to one knee, rolled over one shoulder and brought his sword up into his adversary’s belly before the man was able to lower his shield. The man sank to his knees, the spear crashed to the ground, the shield dropped, and Alvar thrust again with his sword, higher up this time, through the heart.
    He was cleaning his sword when Helmstan, muddy and bloody, sauntered over. “That was done swiftly and well.”
    Alvar grunted. “He should have known when to give thanks for his life and walk away. Now he has made me cross and learned the hard way.”
    Helmstan whistled. “If that is how you fight when mildly irked, then the world had better look out if ever you truly lose your temper.”
    Alvar’s laughter exceeded normal noise levels, as he released the tension after the recent utilisation of his warrior reflexes. “The greater worry is whether you will be keen to fight any more, with your bride waiting in Cheshire.”
    “Hah! If you saw her, you would find reasons aplenty to bide in Cheshire yourself. But what would you know about settling with one woman when you seem to find yourself a new one each night?”
    Alvar lunged forward and aimed a mock punch at Helmstan’s belly. Helmstan pretended to parry and then they stood, arms about each other’s shoulders. Alvar was about to order the burial of the dead, when he looked back towards the border. “Before you go to your wife, it looks as though the lord of Mercia needs you one last time. That is a great many horses for a host not bent on fighting.”
    Helmstan turned and put his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. “Who is it?”
    Riding from the direction of the garrison at Hereford, a group of twenty or more horse made its way towards the skirmish site and Alvar could not identify the banners. He shook his head. “I do not know. Gather the others.”
    But as the entourage came nearer Alvar recognised the colours of the Half-king of East Anglia. Riding under that protection and surrounded by thegns was a youth who looked similar to the king; it was not a huge leap to assume that this was his younger brother, Prince Edgar. The boy sat not very high in the saddle, but he had a man’s jaw and his shoulders were broad. The colour of the downy moustache indicated that the hair concealed by his helmet was as fair as his brother’s.
    The company of thegns dismounted, but Edgar remained in the saddle. Alvar made formal greetings, but said no more than was necessary. These men had gone to a great deal of trouble to find him when they could have awaited his return at Hereford and he would say nothing that would delay an explanation.
    Edgar said, “It looks as though we are here too late. I was keen to see the fight.”
    Alvar frowned. “Why?”
    Edgar stared at him, unblinking. “When a would-be king comes to ask a man for help, it is a good thing if he can witness how well he fights.”
    Alvar’s heart speeded up. Which should he contemplate first; the call for help, or the professed ambition to be king?
    The surprise must have been writ large on his face, for Edgar said, “I have come to ask you to help me win a kingdom and in return, I will see Mercia rich beyond dreams.” He leaned forward in his saddle. “You are well known as a slayer of the Welsh. I am fourteen now, old enough for a kingdom and I believe you are the best man to help me get it.”
    Alvar shook his head. Help to overthrow the king? He was no rebel. And why would this boy, whose foster-kin were the most formidable family in the land, need the aid of a newly appointed earl of Mercia?
    Edgar straightened up. “Lord Alvar, may I be forthright?”
    “I wish you would.”
    “My brother’s only