The Lost Tales of Mercia (10 page)

Eadric watched with huge eyes, fascinated as
Athelward brought the pen back to paper. Teasingly, he wrote a
quick word.

Eadric nearly fell off his stool reaching
for the quill. “I want to try! I want to make them win!”

Athelward pulled it from his reach, but
playfully. “Not so fast, now! You don’t even know how to do
it!”

“Let me try!” Eadric stood on top of his
stool now, grabbing Athelward’s shoulder for balance as he
reached.

Before the ealdorman could help it, the
quill had been plucked from his grip. Eadric held it then teetered
forward, falling off the stool and towards the table.

“No!” cried Athelward. He watched his bottle
of ink tilt sideways, directly over a stack of freshly written
pages. A large jolt went through the table as Eadric landed, making
the wood shudder, the candles flicker, and the bottle fall.

As Athelward dove forward to catch it, his
heart beat uncontrollably, his blood roared in his ears, and his
thoughts raced so fast they made him dizzy. As his fingertips
clutched for the slippery clay surface of the container, his mind
rushed ahead, watching as the ink spilled out and obscured all of
his hard work, all of his carefully navigated streams, drowning
everything in a blinding flood like the one God gave Noah,
destroying the world so that it could all start anew. He imagined
this, and then he realized that he was imagining it, so maybe none
of it would happen, and he would stop the ink from spilling in
time.

But by then it was too late.

The rush of black ink spilled forth,
instantly soaking his pages through, and he was too frozen with
horror to do anything about it. He heard the little boy’s cries
ringing in the air, as if from a distant chamber.

“Oh no! My lord? My lord!”

Little Eadric did what he could to belittle
the damage of the flood he had unleashed; he grabbed the pages and
flung them into the air, away from the spreading black deluge. But
it was still too late: all of the pages had been touched. Even if
the words were still legible, the beautiful artistry and
cleanliness of them had been ruined; they would look like the work
of a sorry layman trying to be a scribe, but failing miserably. It
would be a confirmation to everyone who had ever doubted him that
they were right to do so: that God never wanted an ealdorman to
chronicle history, and He especially did not want one to do so in
Latin.

It was like a sign from the Lord that all of
Athelward’s hard work was meaningless; that his dedication had been
nothing but a conceited fancy. In the end, he was a failure.

When sensation returned to him, he felt
himself trembling from head to foot. He could hardly find the
strength to speak. The little boy was cowering before him, eyes
filled with tears again, guessing the horribleness of what he had
done.

“Will I … will I still find out what
happened at the Battle of Ethandun?”

“Get out,” rasped Athelward. He took a deep
breath, but still he struggled to raise the volume of his voice,
which trembled with the exhaustion of utter despair. “Get.
Out.”

Eadric obeyed.

In the little boy’s absence, the room that
had once been his sanctuary felt suddenly like the darkest,
loneliest, and emptiest place on earth.

*

Athelward did not speak another word to
anyone all day. His servant, Drustan, discovered what had happened
and knew better than to ask about it; he cleaned it up and closed
the chamber up tight. Athelward sat in his room a long while,
staring into nothingness. Eventually, he found it in his heart to
pray, though he could not do even this for very long. He was simply
too angry. Every once in awhile people knocked on his door, but
Drustan guarded it, and told them all that Athelward was busy.

When it was time for dinner, Athelward went,
but he sat still and barely touched his food. The sight of his son,
Aethelmaer, gobbling down his own meal made him sick to his
stomach. The fat man filled the silence by talking on and on, about
this and that, this and that, but all of his words passed through
Athelward’s mind, leaving nothing behind. They were meaningless.
Empty.

Perhaps everything, he thought, was
meaningless.

He drank a great deal that night to dull his
anger and help himself sleep. The Lord must have been in a merciful
temper by nightfall, for when he awoke the next morning, he
suffered few ill effects for this indulgence.

In fact, he felt better.

He got up and donned his robes while his
wife continued to sleep in the bed behind him. He thought about all
of the work he needed to do: all of the thegns and abbots he needed
to speak to, all of the walls and bridges throughout Hampshire and
beyond that needed repairing before fall came. He already wanted to
start campaigning for another Danegald to be paid upon Sweyn
Forkbeard’s next return. That would be much more difficult to
arrange without the help of Lord Alfric, who simply had a way of
persuading people, which for Athelward required much more
effort.

He thought about all of these things because
he was looking towards the future again, and he could endure
thinking about the future because when he awoke this morning, he
found a reason to feel hope. In order to ensure that hope, however,
there was something he needed to do first.

He walked outside and found the morning
suited his mood. Despite being summer, the sun was low enough that
it had not yet cleared the night’s chill. A soft haze covered the
horizon, and dew glittered golden on the grass, and bugs thrummed
about with the energy of the dawn. He made his way to the servant’s
lodge, where he knew little Eadric and his mother had stayed the
night. He stopped some distance away from it, stayed by its
terrible stench. In that lodge all of the servants and maids slept,
some on mats, some on the floorboards, and others on dirty rushes.
Fortunately, Drustan had followed him, and he told Drustan to go in
and fetch what he wanted.

Drustan came back out shortly and said,
“They’re gone, sir.”

“What?” Athelward shook his head angrily.
“The sun’s barely risen! I thought the woman had more stubbornness
than that.” He took a deep breath and thought a moment. Then he
made his way to the kitchens.

Fortunately, he caught them in time. The
woman, Golde, was bartering with the cooks, trying to get as much
food as she could before leaving on her journey to who knew where.
Little Eadric stood silently by her side, his head and shoulders
even more drooped than they had been when he first arrived. No
doubt he had been severely reprimanded by his mother for failing
her. Emotion and empathy stirred in Athelward’s heart.

Golde took some food and thrust it into her
sack. Then she grabbed Eadric’s hand, and made to leave.

“Golde,” said Athelward. “Where are you
going?”

He saw the muscles in her arm tauten as she
squeezed Eadric’s hand; her eyes glittered like the dew as she
glared at the ealdorman. “We don’t need you. We have a home and a
way to feed ourselves in Worcestershire.”

“You don’t need me?” Athelward smiled as he
looked at Eadric, but Eadric refused to return his gaze. “What
about giving Eadric an education?”

He was pleased to see her determined
expression waver with uncertainty. “But—yesterday—”

“Yesterday taught me something very
valuable, Golde,” he said. He glanced at the cooks and servants,
who were all watching him with awed expressions. “Let’s speak in
private.”

Golde followed him into the field, away from
the mouth-watering smells of breakfast being prepared. They looked
over the chalky slopes of southern Hampshire, and in the distance,
the haze was lifting enough to reveal the tallest buildings of
Winchester far away.

“I thought Eadric ruined your precious
manuscripts,” said Golde softly. “I thought you would never forgive
him.”

“Yes, he did.” Athelward looked fondly at
the boy again. “And that’s when I realized that, perhaps, they were
too
precious.”

Golde cocked a curious eyebrow.

Athelward heaved another sigh; remembering
the events of yesterday were still painful. “So much hard work … so
many years of study and labor … gone in an instant.” He watched as
a bundle of clouds swept over the sun, casting shadows on the
glittering earth below. “I know my work is important, but God
taught me a lesson yesterday. It is not quite as important as I
hoped it to be. It is not enough to save my knowledge in a
manuscript, especially one that no one may ever read, save my
cousin Matilda. Perhaps, even if Eadric had not spilled ink on it,
it may have perished in the fires of the next Viking raid. No … it
may not be enough to put my work on parchment alone.”

He could sense Golde’s confusion and burning
desire to keep asking questions, but she was quiet, and allowed him
to gather his thoughts.

“I do not think I successfully passed on my
knowledge to my own children. They never understood what a gift I
was giving them. They showed little interest, and practically no
curiosity. I think this is a chance for me to pass the knowledge to
someone who will pay attention to it—perhaps even
use
it.
Despite his recklessness ...” He peered around the boy’s thick
glowing hair, seeking out his eyes. Reluctantly, Eadric’s gaze met
his, huge and gaping with fear. Athelward smiled reassuringly. He
remembered how Eadric had asked, before Athelward commanded him to
leave, if he would ever hear the full story of the Battle of
Ethandun. His own children had never been so curious. It was
Eadric’s curiosity that made all the difference in the world.
“Despite everything, I sense a certain amount of potential in
Eadric.”

“Really?” Golde sounded breathless. “You’ll
teach him to read? You’ll teach him history?”

“I’ll do what I can.” He glanced back at his
own manor. “I don’t want what I am doing to be a well known fact.
It’s unseemly and would give people … unrealistic notions. And in
any case, I am a very busy man. I truly will not have much time to
spend with Eadric, especially now that I will have to rewrite my
chronicles.” He grimaced. “My secretary Drustan knows a great deal,
however; and if nothing else, I know plenty of monks who owe me
favors. When I can, I will teach Eadric myself, and when I can’t,
I’ll get a monk to do it.”

He looked at Golde, seeing the sparkle of
joy in her gaze; but she was holding it back, maintaining a
cautious frown. “Is there a catch? What do you expect in
return?”

Athelward shrugged. “I’ll require you to
work for me, of course. We’ll find a suitable job.”

“No.” Golde shook her head. “I would rather
continue giving you money.”

The ealdorman scowled. “If you plan to go on
whoring or stealing, that is out of the question.”

“I left a great number of pigs in
Worcestershire. No doubt a lot of them have scattered and been
snatched up by now, but I want to salvage what I can. I’m sure I
can at least come up with enough money to pay you a second time
what I’ve paid you already.”

“Why go through all that trouble?”

“No offense, my lord, but I’d like to ensure
a future back in Mercia, once Eadric’s finished here. Less war
there, right now. And it’s our home.”

He waved his hands with exasperation. “Do
what you will, woman! I don’t care, so long as you don’t vanish and
leave him motherless.” He took a moment to consider all of this.
She seemed very wayward indeed, so perhaps he needed to give her a
few terms, despite making up his own mind. “Come back at least once
a year with the money.”

“Very well. I’ll do that for however long it
takes.”

“How long it takes for what?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Until he’s
ready.” She reached down and ruffled Eadric’s hair. He, too, was
smiling. “So we have a deal?”

“Yes.” The grins were contagious, and
Athelward found one on his own face, as well. “We have a deal.”

**

5

The
Fifth Lost Tale of Mercia:

ALFGIFU THE ORPHAN

(Or go back to
TABLE OF
CONTENTS
)

“
Then came King Ethelred home, in Lent, to his own
people; and he was gladly received by them all. Meanwhile, after
the death of Sweyne, sat Knute with his army in Gainsborough until
Easter ...”

—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, Entry for Year 1014

*

GAINSBOROUGH

Spring, 1014 A.D.

Alfgifu of Northampton did not want to admit
that she was nervous, but when she saw the Viking encampment
looming ahead, her fear burned in her stomach until she could not
ignore it. She forced herself to think the same thought over, and
over, and over again: Canute lost his father, too. Canute lost his
father, too.

This single thought struggled to stay afloat
as the approaching camp drowned her with physical sensations. The
lines of brightly painted shields along the burg walls seared her
eyes. Meat-scented smoke burned her nostrils. The clashing of
playful weapons rang in her ears. These sensations pulled her too
deeply into a reality that made her doubt the strength of her
purpose.

But Canute lost his father, too.

A growl rumbled from her throat, and her
thin legs clutched tightly around her horse, making it lunge
forward. When she thought about it too much, she wondered if this
single fact had truly been reason enough to travel almost one
hundred miles and introduce herself to the new King of the Vikings.
She had so many hopes for what to accomplish here, but as far as
true justifications went—or reasons to believe she might actually
succeed—they all boiled down to a mere gut instinct, and the one
thought that seemed to accompany it.