Last Tales of Mercia 7: Godric the Thegn

by Jayden Woods

  *

  Godric awoke to the sensation that two spikes were winding up his neck, prodding the back of his skull. His aching eye showed him that he lay in a dark room of the inn, sharing the floor with many other travelers. The smell of roasting meat drifted through the cabin walls from the tavern kitchens and made Godric painfully aware of his churning stomach. He barely had time to turn sideways before he vomited up the remnants of last night’s meal into the bug-ridden rushes.

  The memories of the night before came back to him in blurry pieces. He couldn’t put them into any sort of meaningful picture except that he knew he had greatly embarrassed himself. He hoped he had managed not to tell anyone his name. Perhaps he could soon go home and forget that any of this ridiculous mission had ever occurred at all. He tried to clean up after himself, then quickly made his way out of the room.

  In the tavern he avoided the gazes of every occupant and bought himself some breakfast. The food helped settle his stomach but did nothing to relieve the stabbing pain in his head or weariness of his body.

  He also felt a strange ache in his heart that he supposed had driven him to drink so much in the first place. In the dull throb of the morning, his inner pain threatened to resurface. Normally, he might try to smother the feeling in the arms of Osgifu. Here he had no such option.

  He felt like a fool. Why had he come here? Why had he agreed to this ridiculous task? Surely enough, it proved to be bloodless. But that left him with the awful realization that he hoped it would not be.

  He paid his dues and made his way out of the inn. He had half a mind to assume that he had fulfilled his promise to Richard and ride straight back home. Hopefully the parents would punish Hereward as he suggested—they seemed as if they’d already decided to anyway, and just needed to muster the courage to go through with it.

  He was on his way to the stables to retrieve his horse when the shadows of three men fell over him.

  Godric squinted at the silhouettes, fighting the pain in his skull as the sun bored into it. After much discomfort he managed to discern that the men were quite young, except for one on the left, a tall gentleman with especially long legs. The one on the right was smaller and lanky, twirling a knife in his fingers. And the one in the middle must certainly be Hereward. Godric knew as soon as he met the youth’s gaze. The lad was well-built and handsome, nicely dressed and groomed. But his face was red, his eyes swollen as if he had been crying for hours.

  “You’re the man named Godric?” he asked hoarsely.

  Godric sighed and nodded. “Yes, what of it?”

  He did not even have time to flinch before Hereward’s fist came hurtling towards his stomach; as the blow hit, Godric wondered if he might lose yet another meal in front of an audience. Somehow he held it in, but he still bent far over, clutching his stomach and struggling to stay standing.

  “Some Saxon you are,” sneered Hereward. “I try to make a stance against the Norman parasites on our country. And you have me exiled from Engla-lond?”

  Godric took in a weary breath as he straightened back up. “So your parents decided to go through with it, after all.” Despite all the pain of his wine-sickened body, Godric’s heart lifted. He had accomplished his goal. He had gotten Hereward exiled, and thus made an intimidating example of him. Richard would be pleased.

  “Yes. So they did.” Hereward reached out and grabbed the top of Godric’s hair. He twisted the strands and forced Godric to look at him. “I’m an outlaw. I suppose that means I can do whatever I want now and it won’t make much difference, eh, Godric?” He leaned in close, lowering his voice. “Perhaps that was a mistake on your part.”

  Godric saw Hereward’s hand curling up on the corner of his vision. The fist sped forward. Then it smacked against Godric’s palm.

  Hereward’s eyes widened with surprise. Absorbing the blow required more strength than Godric cared to admit, and his shoulder complained of the effort. But he did not let this show, and spoke back to Hereward in a calm and level voice. “I am loyal to King Edward, and I will fight for his decisions.” Godric’s fingers wrapped around Hereward’s fist and began to squeeze it. His other hand grabbed the arm yanking his hair. He tightened his grip around Hereward’s wrist, feeling the strain of fragile bones under the skin. “You say your stance is against the Normans. What does that mean? You must try to fight for something, Hereward. Not just against.”

  Hereward cried out with pain as Godric’s grip became excruciating. Then his face twisted with anger, and he shifted to make his next move.

  Godric saw the kick coming, but he did not have the time nor energy to dodge it. Instead he merely tried to prepare himself for the blow, tensing and curling as Hereward’s boot thrust into his stomach. But he was still sore from Hereward’s punch and he already felt sick, so the blow overwhelmed him more than he expected. He lost his footing and stumbled backwards, catching himself with clumsy hands in the grass. His head throbbed and the world spun around him.

  “Foolish old man.” Hereward pushed back his shoulders and thrust out his chest as he looked down at Godric.

  Godric took the opportunity to recover his breath and reorient himself. He noticed a stack of logs nearby. Someone had left an axe still lodged in the wood.

  “I can do whatever the hell I want,” Hereward continued. “Now more than ever. I can travel the world as I please. I can bed whomever I want; I can quarrel with whomever I’d like. I don’t even have to make a fucking stance. I can simply fight for me.”

  Hereward moved closer. With a flick of his wrist he had his knife in his hand, flashing in the morning sun.

  Godric shuffled backwards across the grass. Hereward followed him, knife poised. To anyone watching, Godric probably seemed to be backing away in fear. “You remind me of someone I once knew,” hissed Godric. “He believed God had chosen him for greatness. He did not care who got hurt because of his own pride and greed.”

  “I will be a hero!”

  Godric’s back stopped against the woodpile. “And he was a king. I don’t give a shit. You are still just a man, and you will bleed as red as any other.”

  “As will you!” cried Hereward, and dashed forward with the knife.

  Godric dodged and twisted as the blade split the side of his tunic, not grazing the skin. Meanwhile he swung out both legs and entangled them in Hereward’s, knocking his feet opposite directions. As Hereward fell, Godric grabbed the axe and wrenched it free. He straightened while Hereward sputtered and thrashed against the grass, fumbling to keep a grip on his knife. Just as he was starting to right himself, Godric sent a kick to his ribs. He struck hard enough to wind young Hereward, who struggled to draw a ragged breath. Godric climbed to his feet and stood over him, axe at the ready.

  The slender fellow in Hereward’s gang was the first to interfere. Godric knew to expect this, but he pretended to remain oblivious as the boy sneaked towards him with a dagger. He moved swiftly and silently, and Godric might have gotten stabbed in the back if he hadn’t known better. At the last moment Godric reached back and knocked away the assailant’s arm. He gripped the middle of the axe-shaft and swung the blunt wood across the boy’s skull. Perhaps he struck a little too hard, for the boy passed out immediately, blood trickling from his forehead.

  Godric sent a warning glance to the last man standing, the older fellow with long legs. The man seemed to know he was bested and kept his distance, a resolute frown on his face.

  Hereward was squirming again. Godric’s boot on Hereward’s forearm kept him pinned, for he could not even lift himself up without straining his elbow the wrong direction. But Godric worried about Hereward’s tenacity getting the better of him. He stomped harder, and did not realize he had gone too far until he heard a small snap followed by Hereward’s scream.

  “It’s your own damn fault,” said Godric, trying to mask his own guilt for breaking a bone on accident. “You’d better stop struggling, for you’ve already lost.”

  Godric lifted his axe. At first he p
lanned to deliver a non-fatal injury, like chopping off Hereward’s hand. Then he wondered why he shouldn’t just see the job all the way through. After all, he’d already broken Hereward’s arm.

  His veins felt on fire. Despite his embarrassment last night, despite the illness with which he’d awoken, he suddenly felt more invigorated than he had in years. He could kill this braggart right now and do King Edward another favor. An exile would not even require a life price. Most people would turn a blind eye on Godric’s decision. Lord Richard would both trust and respect him. But more than anything, killing Hereward would satiate that gnawing sensation deep in his guts, the one that kept him up at night, the one that made a fool of him in Osgifu’s absence. That awful hunger, or whatever it was, might go away—at least for a little while.

  The aim of his axe faltered. The decision weighed too heavily. Better just to swing the axe, and let it fall as it willed.

  The kick in his side seemed to come from nowhere. He thought the tall man remained too far away to touch him. But somehow he had moved close enough to catch Godric within the reach of his long legs. Godric stumbled backwards, barely managing to keep hold of his axe.

  His exhaustion and wine-sickness got the better of him. A searing heat burned through his skull and threatened to blast out his only eye. He felt nauseous again, so his stomach ached inside and out, sore from being punched and kicked. He managed to stay standing, hiding his state of pure debilitation, and perhaps that was the only reason he walked away with his life.

  As Hereward got up, his eyes tearing with rage and pain, he looked ready to rip Godric apart with his bare hands. But he could not do so. He cradled his broken arm while his long-legged friend pulled him the other direction.

  “Martin, let go of me!”

  “You go on. I’ll get Osric. We must away, Hereward. You’re in no state to fight this man.”

  Martin picked up the unconscious Osric while Hereward continued to glare at Godric with eyes of blue fire. His jaws bulged with strain as he nearly grinded his teeth apart. But as his long-legged friend suggested, Hereward kept his distance. “You bastard,” he snarled. “I hope you burn in hell one day.”

  Hereward turned and staggered away. With Osric in his arms, Martin sprinted after him. Godric stood unmoving until he watched the three of them get on their horses and vanish in the horizon.

  Then he dropped his axe and fell to his knees. His hands were trembling. They reached to his belt and pulled out the long dagger, or seax, with a ruby on the hilt of it. He had carried it with him a long while now. It had tasted much blood.

  Why had he accepted this mission? Why had he nearly killed Hereward? Hereward was just a cocky young man with wayward ambitions. He differed little from some of the Jomsvikings Godric had known and admired in the past. But Godric had nearly killed him anyway. Because he would never change. He would never stop thirsting for blood. Sure, he would behave so long as he stayed in his little cabin and kept his axe in the shed where it belonged. But given the right opportunity, he would go right back to being the man he did not want to be. The man Osgifu did not want him to be.

  He sheathed the knife and searched for a small pouch of ale still on his belt. Even if it made him feel sicker, he didn’t care. As long as it got rid of this horrible feeling, he would drink it.

  “Godric?”

  Godric started and dropped the pouch. He thought he must be going mad, for he turned and saw a familiar minstrel with soft blond hair, wearing colorful linens and a little green cap. Surely it could not be possible. This must be the worst wine-sickness he had ever experienced.

  “Oh, Godric.”

  The minstrel fell towards him. Wrapped Godric in his arms. Held him tight, and spoke with a sweet, melodic voice. “Godric, that’s not going to help.”

  “Sigurd?” This was no liquor-induced hallucination. Sigurd really crouched here in the mud of Lincolnshire, embracing Godric and speaking words of comfort. Godric grabbed the minstrel’s shoulders and pushed him back. “What are you doing here?”

  Sigurd’s funny little beard twisted with a bashful smile. “I followed you.”

  “Why the hell would you do that?” Godric didn’t realize until Sigurd’s cap fell off that he was shaking the minstrel much too forcefully.

  Sigurd twisted out of Godric’s grip and put his cap back on with a reddening face. “I happened to visit your house shortly after you left. Osgifu acted strangely. She didn’t want to tell me where you went, though she couldn’t completely lie about it, as it’s not in her nature. I wrested the last bits of truth from Edric.”

  “That little … !”

  “Suffice it to say I put the clues together and—well, Godric, I know you. I worried that things might get … out of hand. I worried that you might do something you regret.”

  Godric felt increasingly mortified, as much by the fact that Sigurd had been following him all this time as the fact he’d been right to do so. “How much did you … ?”

  Sigurd cocked a curious eyebrow, but answered honestly. “I only caught up to you this morning. But it seems I did so just in time.”

  “Sigurd. I ...” Godric’s voice caught. All the words he’d said last night returned to him from the liquor-laden fog in his head. He wondered if he ought to say them again. But they caught somewhere in his throat, unable to come out. He felt the pricking of a tear against his eye, but his body was too parched to release it.

  Sigurd waited, watching Godric intently. The long silence stretched between them, on and on until all of its potential seemed to crack and crumble away.

  “I can’t believe you were watching that entire time and did nothing,” said Godric at last.

  Sigurd sighed and shrugged. “I was ready to interfere, but that Martin fellow kicked you before I could. Fast legs, that one.”

  Godric glowered. “I mean I can’t believe you didn’t help me.”

  “Help you? Why would I possibly think you needed help against that sorry lot? Though I am surprised you look so exhausted. You must really be getting old, Godric.”

  Godric shoved the minstrel again as he climbed to his feet. He staggered on his first few steps towards the stables. When Sigurd put an arm around his shoulders, Godric leaned ever so slightly against him.

  **

  READ MORE

  The chronology of the Sons of Mercia series is as follows:

  EADRIC THE GRASPER (Sons of Mercia Vol. 1)

  GODRIC THE KINGSLAYER (Sons of Mercia Vol. 2)

  Last Tales of Mercia

  EDRIC THE WILD (Sons of Mercia Vol. 3)

  One Last Tale of Mercia will every other Tuesday until the release of the novel, Edric the Wild (October 2, 2012). For more news and updates on the Sons of Mercia series, visit www.jaydenwoods.com.

  Last Tales of Mercia

  1 – Emma the Queen

  2 – Richard the Norman

  3 – Elwyna the Exile

  4 – Ralph the Knight

  5 - Osgifu the Sister

  6 – Hereward the Outlaw

  7 – Godric the Thegn

  Releasing NEXT (August 21, 2012)—

  8

  Audrey the Slave

  Young Audrey is one of many poor Saxons who has been forced to help build Richard’s castle. She and her friends suffer various cruelties at the hands of Lord Richard’s soldiers. One night, she inspires some of her fellow slaves to form an escape plan. But the cruel knight Geoffrey keeps a close watch on her every move, and if she doesn’t succeed, she could pay with her life.

  9 – Sigurd the Gleeman (September 4, 2012)

  10 - Osbern the Son (September 18, 2012)

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, as compiled by various monks until the year 1140, were my primary sources of information. So, too, were the Chronicles of Florence of Worcester and the Chronicles of the Kings of England as written by William of Malmesbury. Without the devotion of these men to chronicle the chaotic events of their time, so little of
the Dark Ages would be known.

  Special thanks to these additional sources for this story:

  Remfry, Paul Martin. Richard’s Castle 1048 to 1219. SCS Publishing. 1997.

  To view a full list of sources, or to tell me what you think of my work, visit my blog at https://talesofmercia.wordpress.com