The Lost Tales of Mercia (14 page)

“And there is another thing you can do.” She
clutched his face tighter, pulling his eyes back to hers. Her voice
grew even softer, smothered by her emotions, but he listened all
the more closely as a result. “The hostages that were given to your
father,” she breathed. There were many hostages, as she recalled;
but the majority of them had been given by Eadric. They were
valuable to him; maybe he even loved some of them. “You must kill
them. And make them die slowly. You must take out their eyes, or
chop off their limbs.”

Canute turned his head and kissed her
trembling fingertips. “Good idea,” he said.

**

6

The
Sixth Lost Tale of Mercia:

HASTINGS THE HEARTH COMPANION

(Or go back to
TABLE OF
CONTENTS
)

“
A.D. 1004. This year came Sweyne with his fleet
to Norwich, plundering and burning the whole town.”

—Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, Entry for Year 1004

*

NORWICH

1004 A.D.

Hastings and his horse raced through a
hundred miles of wetlands and heath to find their destination
obscured in a haze of smoke.

Overnight, the Vikings had reduced
Norwich—the seat of the East Anglian government and one of
Engla-lond’s greatest cities—to ash and rubble. Families stood next
to the remainders of their homes, watching as the unquenchable
flames consumed the last beams. People burned their fingers digging
through embers for scraps and precious belongings. The injured sat
in the ash-ridden streets, moaning helplessly as their wounds
festered. Hastings was not sure whether the water gathering in his
eyes was a result of his own sympathy or the burning smoke that the
breeze threw against him.

Even the high reeve’s hall, on a small hill
in the middle of the city, had not escaped the Viking attack. The
east wall had been severely damaged, so that the whole building
seemed to be leaning, ready to collapse. Hastings wondered if he
had arrived too late. Perhaps the witan had already met, or it
would never meet, for the wise men would not even have a safe place
in which to gather and discuss their future. It was difficult to
imagine a future at all when faced with such immediate
devastation.

But then a breeze blew, as if from the
ocean, fresh, salty, and clarifying. Clouds of smoke rolled away,
and rays of sunshine illuminated a small gathering of men near the
high reeve’s hall, meeting and conversing despite their miserable
circumstances: the wise men. Hastings heaved a deep breath,
dragging himself and his horse towards them.

The men took little notice of him at first;
no doubt they had to ignore almost everything around them in order
to concentrate at all. In addition, Hastings looked more like a
worthless beggar than the royal retainer that he was. He had ridden
through fens and marshes and mud and filth until he felt sodden by
the wet earth from his tunic to his loincloth. But even this did
not weigh him down so much as his own exhaustion. His knees
trembled underneath him and he could hardly keep his head up. His
horse was the only obvious indication of any worthwhile status. A
small crowd had already gathered around the important meeting, so
Hastings seemed like yet another audience member, straining to get
a closer position. Thanks to the horse plodding next to him, people
threw him angry looks, but moved out of his way.

By the time Hastings was close enough to
eavesdrop, no words were actually being spoken. In a circle stood
the East Anglian wise men—thegns, reeves, and members of the
clergy—while in the middle a large man paced back and forth, back
and forth, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.
Hastings had probably glimpsed him before in Lundenburg, but even
if he had not, he could have easily guessed that this was the high
reeve, Ulfcytel. He was a large man, sporting short blond hair and
a grizzly beard. The vibrations of his pounding feet seemed to
carry all the way to where Hastings stood. His name and fair
features were a strong indication of his Scandinavian origin, but
despite all that, his lordship over the Anglo-Saxons was apparent
by the way he held their rapt attention. When he spoke, his hoarse,
booming voice rattled Hastings to his core.

“I am Ulfcytel,” he yelled, “and I say there
is nothing else we can do. Gather the Danegald.”

A soft moan of dismay carried over the
crowd, adding to the chorus of groans already echoing through the
ruins.

Sighing, Hastings leaned against the ribs of
his horse, breathing nearly as heavily as the great beast, and felt
a moment of guilty relief. Perhaps, indeed, he had come too late.
Perhaps he had no choice but to find shelter, get a full night’s
rest, and return home to Lundenburg.

But in doing so, he would fail the Golden
Cross; and even worse, he would fail Aydith.

He looked up and saw that the wise men were
already turning around, ready to walk away, ready to give up.

“Wait,” he rasped. He coughed, trying to
clear phlegm from his throat. He needed water. “Wait!” Still no one
listened to him, so he grabbed his horse’s saddle and pulled
himself up. The stallion neighed with dismay, and Hastings
increased her agitation by kicking her flank, so the steed reared
up and bolted forward, knocking people over and bursting into what
remained of the wise men’s circle.

Hastings did not think he could not have
planned his entry much better than that, for now he had everyone’s
attention. It was not good, however, that Ulfcytel had drawn his
sword, and looked ready to chop off his horse’s legs.

“Wait!” he cried again. He slid back down to
earth, half-stumbling as he righted himself, reaching deep into his
tunic for the one spot against his heart that he had kept clean and
secure. When he pulled out the scroll, its whiteness seemed to glow
through the ashy air, making Ulfcytel’s eyes pop open with
surprise. “I bring …” Hastings gasped, feeling dizzy. He had come
this far. He had to deliver the message properly. “I bring battle
plans from the Golden Cross.”

“The who?”

Hastings righted himself at last, pushing
his matted hair from his face, brushing off what mud he could from
his tunic. He fiddled with his sword belt for a moment, not because
he needed to, but because he wanted to draw attention to its
intricacy and ornateness. He was not sure if he wanted Ulfcytel to
recognize him completely, for they had briefly encountered each
other in the past, but he at least needed to be taken seriously as
a member of the noble retainers. “I am one of the royal gesithas,”
he said. “I serve his lordship and his aethelings as needed. On
their behalf I bring you this military advice, provided by one of
King—er, Engla-lond’s most loyal battle tacticians, the Golden
Cross.”

He had crafted his words carefully, as
instructed, misleading the high reeve without lying. He wanted to
be taken seriously as a representative of the royal family without
ever stating that he was acting on their orders. He also took care
not to say King Ethelred’s name, despite all of this. Two years
ago, Ethelred had ordered that all of the Danes in Engla-lond be
killed. Naturally, he had not succeeded, for there were far too
many of them, including several in positions of great power, like
Ulfcytel himself and other thegns of the Danelaw. Afterwards, many
blamed the massacre on a young man named Eadric, said to have
advised Ethelred in secret the day before. Hastings knew this
meeting had taken place, but he thought it silly to put all of the
blame on this otherwise unknown Mercian. No doubt Ulfcytel,
determined to keep his lands and power, preferred to blame some
poor teen named Eadric rather than the king to whom he remained
loyal.

Hastings’s carefully planned speech must
have worked, for Ulfcytel cocked his yellow eyebrows and unrolled
the scroll. He snapped his fingers. A clergyman rushed quickly to
his aid. Their eyes perused the scroll together, but Ulfcytel
seemed to have difficulty. Meanwhile all the other wise men were
straining closer out of curiosity, annoyed that they could not see
for themselves.

Hastings filled in the silence. “The Golden
Cross urges all of you not to give up hope, even though you have
not had time to gather the fyrd against Sweyn Forkbeard. The Golden
Cross suggests a new tactic, one that would be available to you
without gathering your entire army.”

All this while, the bishop was whispering in
Ulfcytel’s ear, reading the scroll for him. Ulfcytel looked up with
a scowl. “He says to put our best men in front? That’s
ridiculous.”

“It would be faster to gather the best of
your thegns and warriors, rather than all of the fyrd,” Hastings
went on. “And even if time was not a factor, think of it: a shield
wall with the best men in front would be practically
impenetrable.”

The clergyman at Ulfcytel’s side glared at
Hastings. He was thin and gaunt, with beady eyes that were entirely
unpleasant. “And once penetrated, the entire army would
crumple.”

“Bishop Elfgar is right!” roared
Ulfcytel.

“But it would also be easy to penetrate the
enemy,” Hastings went on. He had rehearsed the speech so many times
in his head that the words came out effortlessly. “The front lines
could open up and let men out at will, magnificent fighters who
could wreak severe damage on the Vikings all on their own.”

Ulfcytel hesitated, considering this. When
at a loss, he turned once more to the bishop.

Bishop Elfgar shook his head sadly. “It is
too risky. Besides, who is this Golden Cross, and why have I not
heard of him before? Does he not have a name?”

“Yeah, and what are these two golden lines
at the bottom of the page?” Ulfcytel added indignantly. No doubt he
meant the “x” signed with golden ink.

“The Golden Cross’s signature,” said
Hastings. “And as I said, the Golden Cross is a brilliant military
tactician who serves King Ethelred, and all of Engla-lond. You may
have noticed that the scroll was approved with a royal seal.”

Ulfcytel just blinked in puzzlement.

Bishop Elfgar rolled up the scroll with a
decisive motion. “Battle tactics are beside the point. The East
Anglian witan has made its decision. We will pay Sweyn to leave our
shores, and in that way spare the lives of all our best men, God
willing.”

Hastings could see that he had lost. Indeed,
he had come too late, though he had tried his best, and he wanted
his efforts to enable him to face Aydith without shame.

He only hoped that she would forgive him,
and not see this failure as his own.

*

In his dream he guarded the aetheling while
she slept and listened to the sounds of her breathing. At first it
was soft and slow, rising and falling with the carefree gentility
of a child’s. But she was not a child anymore; she was fourteen,
and sometimes at night she was plagued by nightmares. Her breath
grew faster, heavy and deep, and a soft moan escaped her lips.

“Hastings ... Hastings!”

“I am here, Aydith.”

He found her in the darkness, his large
hands closing around hers, gripping her tightly. In his dream he
could see her, even though it was dark and not a single candle was
lit. Her brown eyes shone like copper moons, searching his.

“Hastings, the Golden Cross failed?”

“I am afraid so, my lady.”

“But ... I don’t understand.” Her hands
tightened against his, and at first he enjoyed the sensation, their
skin pressed so firmly together that he could feel the tiny ridges
of her palm sliding against his own. Then her nails dug into his
knuckles, and pain overwhelmed the pleasure. “It is you who
failed.”

“No, Aydith, please, I did what I could ...
!”

“The Golden Cross, whose mission is that of
our Lord in heaven, would never fail. This is
your
failure!”

He cried out, then clutched for her, even
though she was the source of his pain. She was also his only source
of comfort and healing. She thrashed against his searching grip,
evading him. “Forgive me … please. Isn’t there anything else I can
do? Anything?”

She became still very suddenly, and his
hands reached further through the shadows, for now everything in
his dream had gone dark again. He found her face and stroked it
gently. Her cheek felt soft and warm.

“Aydith,” he whispered. “Serving you is the
joy of my life. All I want is to give you joy in return.”

“Hastings ...”

“Please tell me what else I can do,” he
said. “Please, let me make it up to you ...”

He leaned closer to her, and now he could
not only hear her breath, but feel it, too. He could see her again,
her eyes sparkling, her face suffused with red, her neck lax in his
grip.

“Please,” he whispered, and brought his lips
to hers.

Pain seemed to explode across his ribs, as
if in his heart, and the agony was excruciating. He screamed and
thrashed and flailed.

And in such a state he awoke, panting.

A soldier stared down at him with a
disapproving look in his eyes. His boot was in such a position to
have kicked Hastings, and awoken him thus. Hastings glared with
fury.

“Get up,” said the soldier. “Sweyn’s fleet
has broken the truce. The Vikings are sailing for Thetford.”

“What?” Hastings sat up, his heart pounding,
the anger draining away from his blood in a flood of excitement.
“So … what does this mean?”

“What do you think? We’re going after
him!”

Hastings grinned from ear to ear.

*

Three long weeks later, Hastings stood
holding his shield before him, trembling from head to foot. The
stench of death already clung to the air, a smell Hastings had
quickly come to associate with the Vikings’ presence. Only a few
miles away, Thetford already lay in ruin: homes burned to the
ground, inhabitants stabbed, blood soaking the earth, food and
corpses smoldering.