Last Tales of Mercia 1040- 1058 AD (Book 2)

by Jayden Woods

  Now Cerdic grew confused. “No, not you. The other one.”

  “Ralph?” Lord Richard blinked with puzzlement.

  Ralph shifted on his feet. “Well, actually ...” He bowed his head, reluctant to speak the words he knew he must. As his gaze dropped, he saw Osgar’s blood on Geoffrey’s tunic. He wondered if anyone else noticed.

  “There must be some mistake,” said Lord Richard at last. “Geoffrey? Were you there last night?”

  “Yes, Suzerain.”

  “Then you must have the two of them mixed up,” said Lord Richard to the Saxon. “Ralph would never do something like that.”

  “I know what I saw!” cried Cerdic. “That one—Ralph—fought with Seaver over a woman! They went outside, and then—”

  “I finished Seaver off.” Geoffrey’s voice sliced through all the noise in the room and left a temporary silence. The knight stepped forward and glowered at Cerdic as if at a bug he wished to squash. “I killed Seaver.” Next his dull gaze fixed on Richard. “Je suis désolé, Suzerain. I couldn’t let the Saxon defeat Ralph.”

  Ralph’s cheeks burned, recognizing the insult even as he thanked the heavens for Geoffrey’s help. Placing the blame on Geoffrey made complete sense; no one would think twice about the fact Geoffrey had killed someone. But why would Geoffrey do this for Ralph?

  Lord Richard sighed and nodded wearily. “There we have it. Geoffrey, are you willing to pay Seaver’s life price? It will be two hundred shillings.”

  Geoffrey’s fists clenched. Then he glared at Ralph.

  Ralph gulped. “I will pay half,” said Ralph hoarsely. “After all, I started the fight.” He pretended not to notice that Geoffrey continued to glare at him, the strength of his gaze like a fire blazing against Ralph’s side.

  “That settles it, Cerdic,” said Lord Richard. “I will ensure the king’s peace from here. You’re dismissed.”

  Reluctantly, Cerdic stood and made to go. But his eyes lingered on Ralph all the while, fear swimming in his irises.

  “Imbécile,” hissed Geoffrey as the Saxon departed.

  Once the three Normans were alone, Lord Richard scowled and pushed himself to his feet. Ralph winced on his lord’s behalf, knowing that Richard’s crooked feet must be causing him pain, and yet the lord chose to stand nonetheless. The gesture had its proper effect, for Richard’s large-boned frame cut an imposing figure as he loomed over the room. “Ralph,” said Lord Richard. “I’m disappointed in you.”

  Ralph’s legs nearly buckled underneath him. He had hardly slept, barely ate, and been in a constant state of stress since last night. For the wonderful moment when Richard said “That settles it,” Ralph had felt as if all of his problems must be solved. Relief had poured over him, only to be snatched away once more by a few simple words. I’m disappointed in you.

  “Please, my lord, forgive me,” rasped Ralph. “The man did kick me in front of an entire tavern. But perhaps I overreacted.”

  “I can’t say I blame you,” sighed Richard, “but right now we must be very careful. When I present you to King Edward, I want you to be a shining example of the peace-abiding knights Engla-lond desires right now.”

  “I know. I know. I am sorry.”

  “Thank God Geoffrey took care of this for you,” Lord Richard continued. “But we need to make it very clear to everyone who saw you that night that Seaver’s blood is on his hands and not yours. We will present this at the next hundred-court and set the story straight. Understood?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Ralph glimpsed Geoffrey’s smirk in the corner of his vision and his heart sank further. If Ralph had his way from the beginning, he might have convinced everyone that no murder had happened at all. It would have been difficult, surely, to explain Seaver’s disappearance, but the attempt might have saved them two hundred shillings. Instead, Geoffrey chose to make Ralph look like a fool who had started a fight and not been able to finish it. And he seemed far too pleased with his decision to do so.

  “And you, Geoffrey.” Lord Richard’s reprimanding tone wiped the smirk from Geoffrey’s face. Richard leaned further over the table and lowered his voice. “I usually don’t bother to ask about your activities. But usually, you are much more careful.”

  Geoffrey just stared blankly back at him.

  “Any more blunders like this, and I suspect you’d soon be out of money. If that happens, you’re on your own. Understand?”

  “Certainly, Suzerain. That will not happen.”

  “Good. Have the money ready by the next hundred-court. Dismissed.”

  Ralph heard Lord Richard cursing under his breath as the two knights left the hall.

  Back on the bailey, Ralph took a deep breath of exhaustion and wondered how severely he would feel the loss of one hundred shillings. Most certainly, it would delay the repairs of his new manor and acquiring a wife. But then he watched the construction happening all around him and his heart felt at ease.

  He glimpsed a skinny woman with red hair lugging a large stone through the mud. He wondered if it was the wild Saxon, Elwyna, who had been accused of Drogo’s murder. For her crime, she would undoubtedly hang. Perhaps Richard only delayed her trial so that it would not be widespread knowledge when he next visited King Edward. Ralph’s own losses could have been much worse, he realized. And it was all thanks to Geoffrey that they weren’t.

  “I expect you to pay all of it.” Geoffrey’s calm voice cut him once more to the quick. “I will provide a hundred shillings for the next hundred-court. But when you are able, you will pay back my half of the werigald.”

  Ralph gulped. “Very well.” He wanted to rant at the knight for putting him in this awkward position, but he resisted the urge. “I suppose I should ... thank you.”

  Geoffrey chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” snapped Ralph.

  “I did not do it for your sake,” leered the knight. “Nonetheless, I do believe you owe me a favor.”

  Then Sir Geoffrey went on his way, and Ralph wondered if this was the worst possible punishment.

  **

  5

  Last Tales of Mercia 5:

  OSGIFU THE SISTER

  (back to Table of Contents)

  *

  SHREWSBURY, SHROPSHIRE

  1053 A.D.

  Two warm, sturdy arms seemed to reach from Osgifu’s dreams before closing gently around her. A smile lit her face as her body stirred to wakefulness. She felt the warm rays of sunshine beaming through the window shutters. The musky aroma of her husband, Godric, washed over her as he pulled her close and kissed her neck. The coarse stubble around his lips brushed her tender skin. She laughed and squirmed in his grip. “That tickles!”

  In response, he kissed her again and tightened his hold on her. She struggled playfully, lashing him with her long red hair, then using her predicament as an excuse to turn around and face him.

  At first glance, Godric looked almost boyish in the gentle light of the sun rise. His blue eye glittered mischievously. Short golden hairs shone upon his chin, a pleasant contrast to the dark roots of hair from his forehead. His long brown hair paled easily in the sunlight, which explained why it had almost been blond when she first saw him return from the land of Jomsvikings. The memory made her heart pound and her blood warm; she remembered how handsome he had been that day when she saw him in a Lundenburg church, still in his teen years but already a man in every conceivable way. She had been taken with him ever since, despite the fact he had cursed and grumbled in the house of God, and even voiced his intention to murder someone.

  Now forty-five, Godric was still as handsome as ever, though many years of war and hardship had certainly taken their toll. Osgifu reached up and ran her hands through his hair, which had always been a blend of browns and yellows; now it also carried streaks of gray. Next her fingers brushed over his shoulder and torso, jagged with scars. Then her touch trailed back up his chest, over the jut of his throat, towards the knot of scars on one side of his face that had once been his right eye
.

  He reached up and grabbed her hand, stopping its ascent. “Osgifu,” he said simply. Then he pushed her down and rolled on top of her.

  He smothered her laughter with a kiss, quickly transforming her mirth into a new sensation entirely. The weight of his body enveloped her, pinning her, so that her every attempt to escape only increased her contact with him and made her a more willing captive. She sighed with release as he pushed his hips against hers, making his urgency evident, and trailed kisses down her neck. He propped himself with one arm, his muscles rippling down its girth, as he reached to free himself with the other.

  “Mother ... ?”

  Godric froze, making them all too aware of the sound of the door as it swung open, then the pitter-patter of a boy’s little feet.

  “EDRIC!” Godric’s cry of rage seemed to shatter the rest of the world into silence. Osgifu caught only a glimpse of Edric’s red curls trailing behind him as he turned and ran. Then Godric jumped up, pulling on a pair of trousers with incredible speed. “So much for building our own room!” he snarled, and lunged after his fleeing son.

  Osgifu sighed, trying to replace her own disappointment with sympathy for nine-year-old Edric. She listened to the echoes of Godric’s yelling through the door as she hastened to pull on her own dress. “Best go easy on him, Godric!” she called. “I’m getting too old to conceive another child!”

  Any further jests died on her tongue as soon as she stepped into the main hall and saw why Edric had interrupted them in the first place.

  A strange man cowered near the door of the hall. He had scraggly hair and raggedy clothes, and Osgifu doubted he had bathed or eaten a good meal in months. The stranger stared at Godric with terrified eyes, yet refused to budge from his spot.

  The expression on Godric’s face was far more terrifying. Shirtless and bristling with muscle, Godric looked prepared to murder the man with his bare hands. Without a doubt, the two men knew one another.

  “Edric.” Osgifu crouched and reached for her son, whom Godric had forgotten in the presence of the intruder. Edric gladly ran to his mother’s arms. His face was red from the effort of not crying and he trembled in her grasp.

  “I’m sorry!” he wailed. “But that man came in and I didn’t know what to do!”

  “You did the right thing, Edric.” Osgifu held him close, shielding him as she walked towards her husband.

  “Go back to our room, Osgifu.” Godric spoke without looking at her, his voice a low growl.

  “I will not,” she said, even as her legs quaked beneath her. Then she fixed her gaze on the stranger. “Please, tell us who you are and what you want.”

  Godric snorted. “You won’t get a response from him. He doesn’t talk.”

  Only Edric’s weight against Osgifu’s arms gave her the strength to stay standing. Her head spun dizzily. Years ago, when Osgifu left a nunnery and agreed to marry Godric, she did so with the understanding that he would be honest and true to her in all things. For that reason he had told her everything about his first marriage with Osgifu’s sister, Elwyna. He had described a slave that didn’t speak yet somehow managed to start an affair with Elwyna while Godric was away from home. “So this is Dumbun,” she gasped.

  Godric finally turned and looked at her. His one eye gleamed dangerously even as his face pleaded with her. “Please, Osgifu. Leave us alone.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  Godric had tried to adopt a peaceful way of life once he married her, but Osgifu knew certain urges would never go away. It was a miracle Dumbun had survived Godric’s original discovery of the affair in the first place. Her instincts assured her that if she left the room now, she would return to find a dead body.

  She turned her attention back to Dumbun. “Is this about my sister?” she asked. “Is Elwyna all right?”

  Dumbun bowed his head and shook it slowly.

  “Oh God.” Overwhelmed, Osgifu released Edric. “Go outside now,” she bade him. “Do your chores.”

  Edric seemed all too happy to obey, for by doing so he could flee his father’s wrath as well as the strange man standing near the doorway. He scurried outside and vanished.

  “You look nearly starved,” said Osgifu to Dumbun. “Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll get you some bread.”

  Dumbun made a slight movement toward the table, his desperation apparent. Then Godric pounced. He grabbed Dumbun’s shoulders while jabbing upwards with his knee. He struck Dumbun deep in the belly, then shoved him to the floor. A little groan escaped the slave’s throat as he dropped, his body as limp as a puppet with its strings cut.

  “This man does not get to eat at my table,” snarled Godric. Then his hand curled into a fist. He crouched to land another blow.

  “Godric, no! This is about my sister!” Osgifu’s hands on Godric’s back were the only successful deterrent from further violence. He stopped and turned to look at her, eyes blazing with rage he could not restrain. But the longer he stared at Osgifu, the more his anger faded. “If he can’t eat at the table,” she said, “then he will eat outside.”

  Godric’s tension unwound beneath her touch. His hand uncurled and fell to his side. He closed his eyes, as if to stop himself from looking at Dumbun, while he stood and turned away.

  “I want him gone before noon.” Godric’s voice was weak with defeat. “Or I’ll get rid of him myself.”

  *

  After several attempts to communicate with Dumbun, Osgifu sympathized with Godric’s urge to bludgeon the man to death. She knew that Dumbun could make sounds with his throat, so why didn’t he speak? She prayed that God would give her patience as she fed Dumbun bread, gave him a warm seat near the outdoor kitchens, and tried to pull information from him.

  Osgifu regretted agreeing to take Dumbun outside. The winter chill hung heavily in the air, and to make matters worse, a fog had rolled in to choke the sunshine. Frost remained glittering on the grass well into mid-morning. Even when Osgifu lit a fire, Dumbun kept trembling as if the cold had settled deep in his bones. She gave him a blanket and tried to think of some new way to learn his message.

  Finally, she worked up the courage to ask him the most pertinent question. “Is Elwyna alive?”

  Dumbun nodded.

  A small surge of relief rewarded Osgifu, though her stomach remained knotted with fear. “Is she ill?”

  He shook his head.

  “So ... she is in some sort of trouble?”

  Nod.

  “Do the two of you need money?”

  He hesitated. Without affirming or denying this, he looked pointedly to the heavens, then clasped his hands together as if praying. Then he brushed his forehead, rippling his fingers like water.

  “She needs the mercy of God.”

  Dumbun nodded fervently.

  Elwyna felt ridiculous, but at least this method of questioning had begun to yield results. “Has she done something? Has she committed a crime?”

  He lowered his head sorrowfully, then nodded.

  “How bad is this crime? Theft? Cheating?” No response. “Murder?”

  Another nod.

  “Dear God.” Osgifu made the sign of the cross. “Whom did she kill?”

  Dumbun considered how to respond. Then he grabbed his scraggly locks of hair and pulled them upward. He scraped his other hand up the back of his skull, as if shaving the hair from it.

  “A Norman!” It seemed too horrible to be true. But why else would Dumbun come all this way and dare showing his face to Godric? “Do they have her? Will they kill her?”

  Nod.

  Her mind raced and she paced across the frosty grass as she considered what to do. She certainly did not have the money to pay the werigald of a Norman. Nor would she risk her own neck in some desperate attempt to save her wayward sister. The two of them had not spoken in years. Usually, Osgifu tried her best not to think about Elwyna. But now, knowing that her blood-kin faced death, Osgifu knew that at the very least, she must face her sister once more.

&n
bsp; The distant thunder of horse-hooves forced her to make a decision. She looked through the fog and discerned the the shape of two riders approaching; that would be Godric returning with his Danish housecarl, Faran. Faran liked to act and dress like a Viking, even though he had never been one. The two men had gone on an errand while waiting for Osgifu and Dumbun to conclude business.

  “You must go.” Osgifu stood and nudged Dumbun frantically. “Meet me at Ethelbert’s church. It’s on the road south of here. I will try go there as soon as I can. Now go!”

  Godric surely spotted Dumbun’s figure as it ran off the opposite direction, but he graciously pretended not to. Perhaps a ride through his lands had helped to cool his temper. Godric put his horse in the stables and then made his way towards her. Anxiety wrung Osgifu’s nerves like a dish rag. How much should she tell Godric, if anything? She would have to explain her trip somewhat. But should she tell him about Elwyna? Godric had never been in love with Elwyna; nonetheless, they had been married for about eight years. Surely he deserved to know about her misfortune.

  And if he cared about Elwyna’s well-being, then what? Osgifu had resolved to visit her sister. But what lengths might Godric go to if he chose to interfere? Her stomach flipped while considering the responsibilities. Godric had murdered three kings and an archbishop in his time, all without consequence. If he made up his mind to help Elwyna, who knew what he might do?

  He seemed to share her anxiety as he approached. Perhaps he feared what she might say as greatly as she feared saying it. They stood at a distance for awhile, letting a silence stretch between them.

  “I have to go see my sister,” blurted Osgifu at last. “She’s in trouble. One more visit with her might be my last.”

  Godric avoided his wife’s gaze, perhaps to hide his own emotions. “I see.” He ground his teeth. They both waited, for what she didn’t know. A lone bird cawed in the distance. Godric stepped closer, though he still would not look at her. Finally he reached out and gripped her shoulder. “Do you want my help?”