The Lost Tales of Mercia (5 page)

The shape was Osrid’s, and he held a bloody
dagger.

“EDWARD!”

Arms fell upon Ethelred as if from the
darkness, for night had fallen quickly and the world seemed full of
shadows, reaching and grasping at him.“Edward!” he cried again.
Hands pulled him back as he struggled, yet he could still hear his
half-brother’s moans, and he saw the horse’s thrashing shape,
another black mass against the dim red world. It neighed, hooves
slicing the sky, and wheeled about. Ethelred gave another great
heave to push himself above his captors, looking for Edward as the
horse ran away. The king drooped in the saddle, still clinging
there whether by determination or some fated mechanism, his auburn
hair streaming behind him like the blood pouring from his
stab-wound.

Then Ethelred’s eyes were blinded by his own
tears, and a roar like thunder from his own pulse deafened him as
he was dragged away. His sorrow and rage filled him up, and he was
conscious of nothing else.

*

In his room a meal was waiting for him, but
he could not bring himself to eat it. He ran to the window,
underneath which his mother had posted guards, and he sagged
against the wall, peering uselessly into the gray horizon. Edward
was nowhere to be seen.

Edward was dead.

He had stopped crying for a short while,
somewhere in the midst of his struggling and attempting to escape
while his mother’s hearth companions dragged him away and closed
him in his room. Now the terrible truth struck him again, and it
petrified him. For a moment he was too stunned to even start crying
again. Ethelred had not seen Edward die, but he knew without a
doubt that he was dead, at least by now. Alfryth would see to
it.

Though he still could not move, a shudder
shook him. He could hardly believe his mother’s cruelty and
evilness. She may not have held the knife that stabbed Edward in
the side, but she surely orchestrated its movement. He felt so
confused and foolish for not seeing her intention before. Was he,
in a way, to blame? He knew Alfryth did not like Edward, and wanted
her own son on the throne instead, but he never thought she would
do something like this to get her way. Had he unknowingly helped
her?

The door opened, and Ethelred shrank against
the wall, cowering. There in the doorway stood Alfryth, but his
mother looked different to him than she ever had before. Perhaps
this was because he now saw her for who she truly was. Perhaps it
was because she had freed her head of its veil and wimple, and some
of her long chestnut hair fell freely around her face and
shoulders. Her skin seemed more flawless than ever, glowing with
triumph and power; her dark eyes blazed with energy.

And yet, at the sight of Ethelred cowering,
her expression soured again.

“Ethelred. My son.”

She turned and motioned to the retainers
with a flick of her wrist, and they closed the doors behind
her.

The dimly enclosed space now looked, to
Ethelred, a great deal like how he imagined hell. The moonlight
through the window provided a pale white glow to some corners of
the room, but the rest of the chamber was filled with glaring
orange candlelight and writhing, flickering shadows. Such shadows
moved over the sharp angles of his mother’s face as she stared at
him, and the sight of her livid face filled Ethelred with both
terror and rage.

“How could you?” he cried. The sobs returned
to his throat like so many rising bubbles.“My brother. Poor Edward.
He was always so kind to us. He could have been cruel. He could
have been but he—”

“SILENCE!” Alfryth reached out suddenly,
slender arm uncoiling from the heavy folds of her sleeve like a
snake, and grabbed a candle. Fortunately, the force of her throw
caused the flame to gush out before striking Ethelred’s bed.“You
are a
king
now! That is worth the death of one man; it is
worth the death of hundreds of men! Worth it, at least, if you are
a
good
king, and not a sniveling spoiled child. So stop your
worthless crying!”

Her words moved him, but only for a
movement. True, he would be a king now. He would rise up to fill
Edward’s shoes. But would he be any better than Edward? He simply
didn’t understand.“But Edward was a good king. What am I to do
differently?”

“Oh
stop
asking questions!” She
stormed closer, grabbing another candle and lifting it high.
Ethelred flinched, expecting her to throw it again. But it was
worse than that this time. She swung it down, and the hot waxy end
struck Ethelred’s tunic, the flame flaring then snuffing out
against the cloth. Ethelred yelled and curled up, shielding himself
with the flesh of his back and the thin fabric of his cloak as she
struck him again, and again, and again.

The candle snapped apart eventually, and she
dropped it with a sickening thud. Her heaving breath roared in the
silence. He uncurled slightly, trembling from head to foot. His
back ached, and he knew he would have bruises. But he was no longer
crying. His eyes were dry now, his gaze strangely vacant. Alfryth
might not have noticed, for he could not bring himself to look at
her; if she did notice she said nothing.

After a long and terrible silence, at last
she turned and walked away. She paused as she pushed open the
door.

“I’ll … send you some wine,” she said. And
then she left.

*

They crowned him at Kingston, where his
brother and many kings before him had been crowned, and the people
gathered in a great church and sang, their voices resounding
against the tremendous walls.

“Glory be to the Father, and the Son, and
the Holy Ghost,” they chanted. Some of them turned their eyes
heavenwards, hands clasped in supplication; others peered at him
from dirty faces, mumbling the prayer with lazy lips. Sometimes
their eyes were curious and piercing, sometimes they were simply
blank. Ethelred tried not to look at them, for they made his heart
race and his palms sweat. He could not afford for his hands to be
slippery, for both of them were clasped to the hands of the bishops
on either side of him, leading him to the altar.

“Let thy hands be strengthened,” chanted the
bishops.

Ethelred tried to stare straight ahead,
ignoring all the rest, trying to think of the crown and none of the
responsibilities that went with it. He should be proud, his mother
had said. He should be grateful. In any case, it was God’s will, he
told himself. He must accept it, just like the people here, who
accepted him as King even though their eyes and voices lacked love
or devotion. So he tried to focus on the kingship alone, the glory
of the coronation; but then he saw Archbishop Dunstan, standing at
the altar, and even though he had known the archbishop would be
there, he thought he might vomit from fear.

Archbishop Dunstan: the same old man who had
baptized him as a baby and claimed that he would be a miserable man
all his life. The man stared at him now with a blank expression,
but Ethelred thought he detected the cold hatred behind the blue
discs of his eyes. He was so very old, his shoulders stooped, his
skin sagging, and yet he seemed to radiate with power. His heavy
pallium glowed with the colors of a distant stained glass window,
and glittered with golden pins and brooches.

For a moment, Ethelred feared that this man
was more of a king than he was. He looked down at himself: at his
soft flowing robes, at the golden-thread embroidery, at the thick
brooch on his chest made of gold, blue glass, and garnet stone. Did
all these fancy things make him a king? The thought filled him with
doubt.

Hands pushed at him, and he realized these
were the bishops, nudging him to perform his next act. Remembering
his script, he let go and prostrated himself on the floor, fancy
robes and all.

“We praise thee, oh God,” sang the
people.“We acknowledge thee to be the Lord.”

His cheek pressed against the filthy floor,
Ethelred felt inclined to agree with them. As long as the Lord was
truly the one in power, all would be well, he thought.

At last the bishops helped lift him from the
floor, and he knelt before Dunstan and the great coronation stone
at the altar. All of the church fell silent, knowing that his turn
came to speak. He took a deep breath and did so, trying not to let
his voice waver, trying to fill it with the strength of a king.

“In the name of Christ, I promise three
things to the Christian people my subjects. First, that the Church
of God, and all the Christian people, shall always preserve true
peace through our arbitration. Second, that I will forbid rapacity
and all iniquities to every condition. Third, that I will command
equity and mercy in all judgments, that to me and to you the
gracious and merciful God may extend his mercy.”

“Amen,” said the people, and he exhaled with
relief.

The prayers went on, and the smoke of the
candles made him dizzy, and his ears rang with the never-ending
words. All the while he stared at the foot of Dunstan’s robes, as
unwavering and steady as the man himself. Then the bishop held the
crown over his head, and Ethelred could hardly find the strength to
breathe. He thought he could feel the weight of the large metal
piece, though it had not yet descended.

“Almighty Creator, everlasting Lord,
Governor of heaven and earth, the Maker and Disposer of angels and
men, look down propitiously on our humble prayers, and multiply the
gifts of thy blessing on this thy servant, whom with humble
devotion we have chosen to be King of the Angles and the Saxons:
surround him everywhere with the right hand of thy power, that,
strengthened with the faithfulness of Abraham, the meekness of
Moses, the courage of Joshua, the humility of David, and the wisdom
of Solomon, he may be well pleasing to thee in all things, and may
always advance in the way of justice with inoffensive
progress.”

All the words followed the script his mother
had described to him; they were all normal and ceremonious
statements. But Ethelred heard them now as if he had never heard
them before, and they filled his head with a heavy burden. After a
short while, he seemed to cease hearing them altogether, for it was
too much to endure. How could he do all these things? How could all
these people expect him to?

His lips continued to move, playing their
expected role; so did his hands, accepting the gifts bestowed upon
him. Dunstan continued to hold the crown high while Ethelred
received the sword, a great heavy thing which sagged in his
fingertips, sparkling with a gilt pommel.“May all the strength of
his enemies be broken by the virtue of the spiritual sword, and may
thou combat with him, so they may be utterly destroyed,” Dunstan
prayed.

And then, at last, the archbishop lowered
the crown, glittering as it descended to Ethelred’s head. The
breath of the entire congregation seemed to catch and hold.

“May God crown thee with the crown of
glory,” Dunstan intoned, “and with honor and justice, and the
strength of fortitude, that by virtue of our benediction, and by a
right faith of the various fruits of good works, thou may attain to
the crown of the everlasting kingdom, through his bounty, whose
kingdom endures forever.”

At last the crown fell upon Ethelred’s hair,
and he breathed deep, closing his eyes. It was only a thing, he
knew; and yet for a moment, he felt as if it filled him with
strength, energizing and empowering him.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Dunstan
leaning down, the fire of his holy gaze boring into him, and his
blood ran cold. When next he spoke, Ethelred did not know if it was
loud enough for all the gathering to hear. And yet to him, the
words seemed louder than any spoken yet.

“Since you have taken the kingdom by the
death of thy brother, hear the word of God.”

Ethelred could only stare up at the
archbishop in horror. This was not part of the script, and this did
not sound like something that had been said to any other king
before.

Dunstan straightened up, eyes scanning the
congregation. His voice rose, making the stone pillars
tremble.“Thus saith the Lord God: the sin of thy mother, and of the
accomplices of her base design, shall not be washed out but by much
blood of the kingdom’s wretched inhabitants; and such evils shall
come upon the English nation as they have never suffered from the
time they came to Engla-lond until then.”

People murmured and whispered to each other;
a general wave of moans seemed to float over the room. The sweat of
Ethelred’s hands dripped down the precious metals of his new sword.
His mother’s sins could “not be washed out but by much blood of the
kingdom’s wretched inhabitants.” What could it possibly mean?

Whatever it meant, Ethelred knew it would be
terrible.

**

3

The
Third Lost Tale of Mercia:

AYDITH THE AETHELING

(Or go back to
TABLE OF
CONTENTS
)

“
This year there was great commotion in England in
consequence of an invasion by the Danes, who spread terror and
devastation wheresoever they went, plundering and burning and
desolating the country with such rapidity, that they advanced in
one march as far as the town of Alton ...”
—Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, Entry for Year 1001 A.D.
*
LUNDENBURG
1001 A.D.

Aydith’s heart seemed to throb in her
throat, so completely did her rage and sorrow fill her. Breathing
became difficult as she waited for her father to exit the hall, but
she stood firm, swallowing down what fear she could. She watched as
the various nobles and clergymen exited the room first, their faces
cheerful, though she did not see anything to be cheerful about.
Some of the faces comforted her, such as Bishop Alphege’s, who wore
his usual expression of stoic calm. Others infuriated her, such as
the smirk of the man named Lord Alfric, who had betrayed her father
once before but now strolled about the palace as if he still ruled
Mercia as ealdorman.