The Lost Tales of Mercia (28 page)

“Greetings, Aetheling.”

Edmund squinted at the dark shape outlined
by the sinking white sun. Then he blinked with surprise at the
stubbed yellow curls remaining around the man’s forehead and the
pinched, angled smile hovering above his chin. The prince froze,
all but for his hand, which twitched involuntarily towards the hilt
of his sword. Alfric’s eyes flicked to watch the movement. He took
a step closer, his long red cloak spreading behind him. Edmund
gulped.

“I’m so glad I ran into you,” said Alfric.
“I need to talk to you about something.”

“Step back.” Edmund scrambled away, nearly
embarrassing himself by tripping over a stone in the road.

“Easy. I just don’t want anyone to hear us.
Maybe we should talk over there?”

He pointed to a dark alley between
buildings, and Edmund’s heart jumped into his throat. How foolish
would he be to follow Alfric to a place like that? “We can talk
here,” he said, struggling to sound firm. “Or back in the
palace.”

“That would be even worse,” said Alfric. His
expression twisted into one of impatience. “I’m not here to play
games, boy. Will you hear me out or not?”

Edmund hoped he did not look as terrified as
he felt. He glimpsed the sword under Alfric’s cloak. It was smaller
and simpler than his own, despite the sizes of their respective
owners, but in that case it would be even easier to quietly
unsheathe and use to slit someone’s throat. He wished desperately
that he had brought along his companions, after all. But it was too
late for that now. Either he toughened up and listened to what
Alfric had to say, or he ran away and wondered for the rest of his
life whether he could have uncovered an important secret.

“Very well,” he breathed at last.

Alfric bowed his head and swept his hand
towards the alley. “After you, my lord.” How quickly his tone had
changed!

Edmund wanted to insist that Alfric go
first, but he saw a gleam of amusement in Alfric’s eyes, as if that
was exactly what he hoped for. He would not give him that
satisfaction. Feeling miserable enough to die anyway, Edmund
trudged ahead. Soon he stood in between two walls and a large stack
of wood, so that there was only one way out, which quickly became
closed by Alfric.

Alfric filled the space happily, though he
feigned a grave expression as he leaned against the wall. “Now
Edmund,” he said. “I think you’ve met Lord Egil.”

Edmund tried to swallow, but found his mouth
too dry.

Alfric leaned close, lowering his voice
almost to a whisper. “He’s up to no good.”

The aetheling resisted the urge to step back
from Alfric’s piercing gaze. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“I spoke to him only yesterday. He’s going
to do something to the food on Saint Brice’s Day.”

Hope stirred in Edmund’s belly, but he
doused it quickly. “Do
what
, damn it?”

Alfric smirked. “Poison it, of course.”

There. Someone had said it at last. The
truth was revealed. And yet as he looked at the smile pulling one
corner of Alfric’s lips, a shiver went through Edmund. He should
not trust this man at all. This man had once taken his father’s
battle plans directly to the Vikings. His son had paid the price
for the crime. And now he was back ... for what? What if Aydith was
right? What if he wanted revenge? Or what if he was truly so
cowardly he didn’t even care for that; he simply wanted to gain
Ethelred’s favor once more, whatever it took?

If Aydith were here, Edmund thought, she
would pester Lord Alfric with questions. It always annoyed Edmund
when she asked lots of questions. But she also seemed to know about
everything as a result. So perhaps he should ask some questions,
himself. “Um ...” He shifted about on his feet, then crossed his
arms over his chest. “How do you know?”

“I heard him say it,” said Alfric.
“Yesterday.” He cocked an eyebrow, as if he and Edmund shared a
little secret. Edmund wondered whether the banished lord knew about
his conversation with Ethelred that very morning. Edmund guessed
that he did.

“So why did you wait this long to tell
someone?”

“I wanted to find out more. So I did. Egil
has a network of other Danes helping him; they will all work
together to poison the soup. I don’t know who all of them are,
however.”

“Oh God,” said Edmund.

Alfric nodded gravely. “I can think of only
one way to surely escape this. Ethelred, his family, and his most
loyal men must go somewhere else to feast. It need not be
suspicious, though you must of course keep it quiet. I know of a
great manor down the river. It could be like a retreat, if you
will.”

The idea was simple enough. If a plot was
afoot in Lundenburg, why not just leave for a little while? Then
Edmund clenched his fists. It was a coward’s way out—just like
Alfric to suggest. And in the end, it would not destroy the threat,
only delay it.

He felt he had heard enough of Alfric’s
driveling. He needed to go somewhere else to think about it. He
doubted Alfric would tell him anything else useful, and the dark
confinement of the alley grew stifling. “I will think on this,” he
said. He made to go, moving around Alfric to the best of his
ability.

He flinched with surprise as Alfric’s hand
wrapped around his arm. “I haven’t finished speaking with you,” he
snarled.

“But I have finished with you,” said Edmund.
He looked desperately about, but no one in the streets so much as
glanced his direction. Did they not care what was going on
here?

Sensing the aetheling’s hopes, Alfric
tightened his grip and swung Edmund back in front of him, so that
no one from the street would see him at all. A white mist spread
around Alfric’s face as the air froze his huffing breath. “Listen
Edmund, I’m giving you a way to save your family! And you’re just
going to walk away like you never even spoke to me?”

He shook Edmund hard, and the aetheling
flapped about like a rag-doll. Much to his own shame, he felt weak
and helpless with fear. Why was Alfric doing this to him? Why was
this happening to him at all? “What do you
want?
” he
cried.

Alfric stopped shaking him, his voice
calming slightly. “I want you to do as you should. Save your
family. Do what I’ve suggested. Let me
help
you. Be a hero,
Edmund.”

Edmund stared with terror into the
splintered colors of Alfric’s irises. A horrible possibility
entered his mind. What if this suggestion was a trap in itself?

“Edmund?” His brow furrowed with concern.
“Do you not trust me? Is that it? Well … consider this,
aetheling.”

Alfric pressed him to the wall with one
forearm, while his other hand yanked his sword from its scabbard. A
cry ripped from Edmund’s throat in harmony with the ringing steel.
Alfric replaced the arm against Edmund’s throat with his blade.

“What do you think of this?” Alfric leaned
close to him. “I could kill you, Edmund, right here, right now. No
one would know. I could strip you of your valuables so you looked
like the corpse of a miserable peasant. I could even give myself a
little nick on the arm and claim I tried to save you from the thief
that did it. Perhaps your father would welcome me back with open
arms for my bravery.” Edmund moaned with dismay. “But I won’t do
any of that, of course.”

Alfric stepped back and re-sheathed his
sword with a quick and clumsy movement. Edmund realized the lord
was shaking nearly as violently as himself. As relieved as he was
to be released, spite filled his veins, for he knew the only reason
Alfric did not do such a thing was because of his own
cowardice.

“You see, my lord?” The ealdorman’s voice
cracked slightly. “I wish you no harm. All I ask is that you do not
ignore my warning, and tell me what you want to do next, so I may
plan accordingly.”

“I … I ...” Edmund could hardly think
straight. His fear blurred all of his thoughts like a thick, white
veil.

“Edmund, tell me what you’re going to
do.”

“GO TO HELL!”

Edmund shoved blindly at Alfric, throwing
himself forward with all of his might. He was not exactly sure how
it happened, only that for a moment his limbs tangled with
Alfric’s, and then suddenly he was free. Then he took off
running.

He did not care where he went, so far as it
was far away from Alfric. He did not even care to run towards the
palace, either. What would he do once he returned? Tell his family
what Alfric had said? And what if Alfric was only leading his
family into another trap?

He listened to the wind gush past his ears
as his thoughts roared within his head. The more he thought about
it, the more perfect he realized such a plan would be. Alfric could
lure out all of Ethelred’s “most loyal men” away from their their
guards and retainers, who would be suspected of consorting with
Lord Egil. All of them would go to an isolated spot, and there they
could easily be slain. It seemed a bit far-fetched, even for
Alfric. But Edmund would not put it past him. And even if the trap
was not so cruel as that, what else bad might happen? No matter how
politely Ethelred went about it, such a gesture would send a clear
message to all of the men left behind—mostly Danish nobles of the
north—that he did not trust them, nor care for their company in a
feast.

People gave Edmund strange looks and yelled
at him, but he did not stop until exhaustion overcame him. In truth
he was still not very far from the palace, but his fear and despair
drained him more than any physical effort. He collapsed on a wooden
step, crumpling under the weight of his responsibilities, and broke
down in tears.

He did not know for how long he cried. It
felt incredibly good, somehow, and he did not know when he might
have another chance to cry like this without his companions or
someone else of importance watching. He felt sad for himself, and
his entire family, and all they had to endure. How could they
protect Engla-lond when it was so hard just to watch their own
backs? He thought of all the horrible things people said about the
king; he thought of how many times he had felt equally mad at his
father. But how could one function when plagued with so much doubt
and uncertainty? How could Ethelred act wisely from one day to the
next when at any moment, his own friends could turn on him?

“What’s this?” called a young man. “What
ails you, my friend?”

Edmund looked up, annoyed by the
interruption. But the sight of the churl who addressed him gave him
pause. The peasant, only a few years older than himself, stood and
spoke like a nobleman. He had long curly hair that reminded him of
Alfric’s, though he quickly forced this thought away, recognizing
this as the paranoia his father had warned him about. The fellow
seemed to be on hard times, whatever his station, for his clothes
were ill-fitting and coming apart at the seams. The horse he held
next to him carried a casket of wine, leaking a small red river
down the its belly. But none of these misfortunes seemed to phase
the young man, whose eyes twinkled with optimism.

“Who are you?” Edmund grumbled at last.

“Eadric of Staffordshire.”

Edmund did not recognize the name. But if he
was here from Staffordshire, might he be a thegn hoping to make a
name for himself at the king’s witenagemot? Or even one of the
lesser wise men?

“Now tell me who has wronged you,” Eadric
went on. “A lord? A churchman? Or perhaps a woman? I can help you
with any of the above—especially the last.”

“Can you help me with a father?”

“I know little of fathers.” Eadric’s face
pinched as if the word put a bad taste in his mouth. “But what has
he done to you?”

“He has done nothing to me, but everyone
else complains of him. They call him foolish and incompetent.” He
glared at Eadric. “I bet you don’t even know what that word
means.”

“It means he cannot do his job.”

Edmund scowled. He hadn’t realized the word
was so insulting.

“If you ask me,” Eadric went on, “a job is a
job. What matters is whether he can protect himself, and his
family. A job is only a means to an end. Do you follow?”

“I … think so.” He didn’t. But he wanted
to.

Eadric smiled. “Cheer up, my friend. The
purpose of a job is to buy bread and live a comfortable life.
Therefore its purpose is to be happy, and so it must be useless, if
it makes no one happy. Consider the king. He is a king! And yet do
you hear how people ridicule him?”

Edmund blinked with surprise.

“When the king asks people to pay money to
the Vikings, and thus delay the next attack, everyone shouts and
complains. But the king is only doing what he must: protecting
himself and his own. In any case, he wants his people to be happy,
and if they stopped complaining, perhaps they would be.”

Could it be? Someone who actually approved
of his father’s actions? “They say he should fight more. But he
won’t.”

The young man shifted about uncertainly.
“And do you blame him? Why, if I was the king, I wouldn’t fight
much at all, I think.”

“Then you’re a coward!”

Eadric crossed his arms over his chest. “Am
I? Think about it, friend. Our Saxon kings tried to fight the
Vikings for over two hundred years, and it hasn’t accomplished a
thing.”

“Then what would you do?”

Eadric’s grin stretched from ear to ear.
“Whatever method was fastest and easiest, I suppose: a method that
certainly would not be found on the battlefield.”

Edmund thought of what Aydith had said.
Ethelred needed to do something both definite and
non-confrontational. Was that the sort of thing this poor noble had
in mind?

Eadric shook his head lackadaisically.
“Don’t think on it so much. The king does what he must to protect
and feed us; I am sure your father is the same. And if he isn’t …
then to hell with him!”