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

by Jayden Woods

  “Oh, Elwyna!”

  She wrapped her arms around the bony form and cried helplessly. Never would she have expected this sort of reaction from herself. Over the last few years, she had convinced herself that Elwyna deserved her fate as an adulteress living in exile. She had also forced herself to believe that Elwyna might have found some sort of peace living beyond the normal boundaries of society. Now she realized that had all been a daydream she indulged in order to deal with her own crushing guilt. It had been Osgifu’s fault that Godric had committed to marrying one of Lindsey’s daughters. And it had been Osgifu’s fault that Godric married Elwyna instead of Osgifu, the woman he loved, because Osgifu had run off to a nunnery. At the time, it had seem like a righteous and self-less decision. But in truth, she had never stopped to think how she would affect the lives of people who cared about her before making such a significant choice.

  As if aware of the same truths, Elwyna did not respond for awhile, merely endured the weight of her sister’s sorrow. Then at last she leaned against Osgifu, returning the embrace in the only way possible with her arms bound behind her.

  Osgifu pulled back and looked Elwyna in the eyes. Despite the condition of her body, Elwyna’s eyes blazed with vigor. “Why have you come here, Osgifu?”

  “I needed to see you!” For a moment Osgifu was embarrassed by her own tears, by her own need validate that Elwyna’s situation was not entirely Osgifu’s fault. Perhaps her hidden guilt had largely contributed to this venture. She wanted to believe that Elwyna experienced some joy at the sight of her older sister. But perhaps Osgifu’s presence only brought her pain.

  She heard the sound of Ralph shuffling in the dirt behind her, and she wished desperately that the Norman knight would leave her alone so she could speak to her sister in privacy. Perhaps it was too late for that. Too late for Osgifu to apologize for everything that had gone wrong.

  So Osgifu took a breath and tried to contain her emotions. She attempted to focus only on how to move forward, rather than how to evaluate the past. She should not try to obtain privacy with Elwyna for the sake of having a heart-felt discussion. As Godric himself would say, what was done was done. But perhaps she should try to be alone with Elwyna for another reason.

  “I need to speak privately with my sister.” Osgifu turned her tearful eyes toward Ralph.

  “I can’t let you do that.” He looked aside to help harden his resolve.

  “I understand that you must keep watch over us,” said Osgifu. “I only ask that you get far enough away that you cannot hear us. I want to hear my sister’s version of what happened, and I worry that she will not tell me everything if you stand listening.”

  Ralph sighed. “Very well.” He made his way across the grounds. Osgifu watched all the while, and when she was satisfied, she nodded. The knight stopped far beyond the stables, where he could see but not hear her.

  Osgifu turned back around and spoke before Elwyna had the chance. “If you really killed this man Drogo, I don’t want you to tell me. I don’t want that on my conscience. But I want you to tell me everything else.”

  Elwyna scowled at her. “Why does it matter to you what I’ve been through?”

  Osgifu tried to ignore the sting of that question. “I think I might be able to help.”

  “It’s a bit late for you to be helping me, now isn’t it?”

  Osgifu did not back down. She glared back at Elwyna and waited stubbornly until the younger woman gave in.

  Elwyna sighed and sank back against the wall. “Dumbun and I built a cabin in the woods not too far from here. No one knew we were there until the two Normans came along. They ate our food, used our home like it belonged to them, and Drogo ...” Her breath caught. Then she pursed her lips and spat contemptuously, “Drogo seemed to believe he could use me as his own, also.”

  Osgifu’s stomach turned cold. “Did he … ?”

  Elwyna gave a terse shake of her head. “No. I k—” She realized her mistake and reconsidered her words. “He died before he could go through with it.”

  Osgifu shuddered as her own memories threatened to rise to the surface—memories of pain she had endured long ago, but could still sting as if she experienced it only yesterday. She had spent years burying the pain under layers of self-confidence and fortitude. Love and forgiveness had mostly healed the old wound. But never would she forget the feelings of humiliation, futility, and worthlessness that crippled her during and after the moments of her abuse.

  “I understand why you might have … wanted to kill him,” said Osgifu. “Though I hope, for the sake of your own soul, that you leave punishment to our Holy Father. Realize that God wants us to forgive our enemies, not strike them back.”

  “Or perhaps that’s what you tell yourself,” hissed Elwyna, “in order to deal with what happened to you.”

  Osgifu did not reply, did not react. After a long stretch of silence, she wiped the last of her tears and looked away, contemplating the lack of emotions within her. Either Elwyna’s words struck too deeply to acknowledge, or Osgifu had made peace with this possibility long ago, without even realizing it. Whether her ideals of God’s will had been the reason she joined a nunnery after the incident or not, she had come to believe them, and Elwyna’s jab could not touch her.

  Watching Osgifu’s calm face, Elwyna wilted. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

  “Never mind. I still ask that you think about what I’ve said. If I am to to help you, I need to know that your heart is in the right place, first.”

  Elywna’s lashes fluttered, afraid to hope. “You still mean to help me? But how ...?”

  “Elwyna. Do you ask God to forgive you for all your sins? Will you do so every day henceforth?”

  The last of Elwyna’s defiance wore away. She sagged in her bonds, staring gloomily into the mud. “I do wish it had all happened differently. When he died, that look on his face ... I wonder if he really deserved it.”

  This admonition was enough for Osgifu. She reached out and clasped her sister’s arm. “But he died, and in the end, his death was God’s will.”

  Elwyna looked back up uncertainly.

  “Is it true that Drogo suffered no visible injury? Merely collapsed and died?”

  “No visible injury at all. It is why they accused me of sorcery.”

  “But I can vouch for you that you’re no sorceress. And as for his death, I think it’s quite clear that God struck him down because of the sin in his heart.”

  Elwyna blinked back at her sister in surprise.

  *

  “How would you know?”

  Ralph stood scratching his head, struggling to form a response to Osgifu’s bold proclamation. After speaking to Elwyna, she had walked straight up to him and announced that Drogo had not died at Elwyna’s hands, but God’s. They still stood in the middle of the castle courtyard, far from Ralph’s superiors. Osgifu almost felt guilty that she must take advantage of his kindness by putting him in such an awkward position. But she also knew that God might have placed him in her path for a reason.

  “I know my sister,” Osgifu said firmly. “She would never harm another person without cause. And I think one can easily surmise, from the full description of what occurred that day, that she did not harm anyone at all.”

  “Drogo’s dead!” Ralph declared, so loudly that he drew the attention of a few laborers nearby. As the sun fell and the sky darkened, most of them put down their tools and sat down to enjoy the last warm rays of sunshine. Now their attention meandered curiously to the red-headed Saxon woman arguing with a Norman knight.

  “So he is. But he only has himself to blame.”

  “Himself?”

  “Ask the man with him that day. Ask Sir Fulbert.” Hoping that her arm did not reveal the trembling of her body, Osgifu reached out and pointed. The older knight was walking out of the main hall. At the sight of her, he stopped and stared uncertainly.

  Osgifu stood her ground. She remembered how Fulbert had been wary of her. So
me of his anxiety came from recognizing the name of her husband. But Osgifu suspected that some fear might have come from his own uncertainty of what had happened the night Drogo died. Perhaps the two factors would combine to form a solution.

  Reluctantly, Ralph waved to Sir Fulbert, who promptly walked over and fixed Osgifu with a guarded stare. “Is something wrong?”

  “The lady wants to know why Drogo might be blamed for his own death,” said Ralph through gritted teeth.

  “Quoi?” Fulbert scowled at Osgifu, then launched suddenly into an angry torrent of Norman to his younger companion.

  Osgifu did not let it last long. “English!” she yelled. “Unless you have something to hide from the rest of us?”

  Her heart was hammering in her chest. She hadn’t planned any of this. Why had she said “us”? She glanced around and saw that many Anglo-Saxons were watching her. Some of them came closer to listen. Some of them whispered to each other, spreading her name. She felt as if power flowed through her, though she couldn’t explain where it came from, or whether she had carried it within herself all along. Either way, she felt as if she swam in a stream with a building current, growing stronger and stronger, and she had little choice but to trust where it led her.

  Ralph gulped, noting the tension that had started to gather around them. “Fulbert was telling me that your sister had no right to live in that cabin. She was on Lord Richard’s land without his knowledge. She was lucky that they did not arrest her right away for not paying rent.”

  “And I’m sure she lived there before Lord Richard came here.” Osgifu struggled to rein in a surge of anger. She was starting to understand why so many people spoke angrily of the Normans. They behaved as if all Anglo-Saxons were “lucky” the Normans let them do anything at all. “In any case, it seems to me that you have neglected giving her a trial and used her situation to add another laborer to your castle. Let’s not put it off any longer. Let us decide her fate, here and now.”

  Sir Fulbert turned very red in the face, but could only make a weak retort. “Lord Richard is absent.”

  “Then fetch his son, Osbern.”

  Fulbert scoffed. “If it will get you red-headed girls out of my sight, then I will!”

  As Fulbert stormed away to get the young boy, Osgifu’s stomach turned. She wondered if she had not just done something foolish. The boy had not taken kindly to her and seemed very temperamental. But she trusted her instincts and waited as patiently as she could.

  The teenaged lord looked irritated indeed as Fulbert practically dragged him into the courtyard. Edric trailed behind them, scowling. Both he and Osbern seemed agitated. Had the two of them fought together?

  “What is going on here?” cried Osbern. Then, to Ralph, “I told you this was your problem!”

  Edric hurried over to his mother, then stood next to her with his arms crossed over his chest. Edric and Osbern glared back at each other.

  “Yes, my lord.” A wave of red crept up Ralph’s neck. “But we have delayed Elwyna’s trial, and perhaps we should get it over with.”

  “In that case, go on and hang her. We already know she killed Drogo.”

  A wave of dismay rolled through the gathering crowd. Osgifu felt its strength almost tangibly, and she knew then she had made the right decision by calling for Osbern. His ostentation would be his demise.

  “We know nothing of the sort,” she declared. “We know that Sir Fulbert left Drogo and Elwyna alone in a room together. And we know that Drogo died without any visible wounds.”

  “Sorcery,” said Osbern.

  “I swear to our Lord in heaven that my sister is no sorceress.”

  Alfwaru’s voice rose suddenly from the crowd. “And I believe her! Osgifu was once the abbess of Saint Mary’s! She was the most God-blessed woman I ever knew!”

  A few voices rose to echo Alfwaru’s.

  Osbern glared at them all irritably. “Is this what you call a trial?”

  “In Engla-lond, we judge a person based on the merit of those who speak for her.”

  “Then you have the word of a Norman knight against the word of a … you.” Osbern waved his hand at her helplessly. Osgifu smothered a flicker of sympathy for the boy. He seemed as if he did not really know what he was doing here, handing out judgment, and he resented his role entirely. Never mind. Osgifu did not particularly want to be here either. But she would do what she must for her sister.

  Once again, Osbern’s words worked against him. The voices in favor of Osgifu rose louder. Sir Fulbert glowered darkly, all too aware of his own lack of popularity.

  Osgifu knew this was her moment. “And why would Sir Fulbert wish to admit the truth? He left Drogo with Elwyna so that Drogo could force her into bed. He doesn’t want to admit that his companion’s heart had spoiled with sin. For Elwyna had no need to lay a hand upon Drogo. God smote him down as punishment for the greed and lust already poisoning his body!”

  The crowd of Anglo-Saxons roared in agreement. Some of them picked up their daily tools and held them high. Anger simmered in their air even as the sun’s warm sunshine faded with its fall.

  Osbern shifted nervously. For a moment, his big brown eyes widened with fear. Then his hand twitched at the sword on his hip. His energy shifted from fear to anger. “I’ll tell you how we hold trials in Normandy,” he yelled, loud enough to silence everyone, though his voice screeched slightly. “We judge a person by those who will fight for him!”

  Osgifu could not hold back a smile. He had laid a trap for himself even better than any she might have invented. “Do you really want me to bring forth my champion?”

  Silence fell over the mud-ridden camp. Osgifu stared calmly back at the Normans while she watched the blood drain from their faces—except for Osbern, who only seemed to grow more puzzled.

  “Well then? Who?”

  “Don’t do it, my lord.” Fulbert’s voice was hoarse, his shoulders sagging with defeat.

  Osbern clearly hated the fact everyone seemed to know something he didn’t, and he only grew angrier. “That’s for me to decide! Who is this champion?”

  Ralph gave Osbern an imploring look. He walked closer to the young lord and lowered his voice, though Osgifu could still hear him. “My lord, her husband is Lord Godric Eadricson. He is a dear ally to King Edward, and might have been responsible for his rise to the throne. We should not make him an enemy.”

  Osbern’s fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides, his dark eyes glaring at Osgifu until they seemed to bore a hole. But he was running out of arguments.

  “It’s not worth it,” added Sir Fulbert. Then, more loudly, “This wench has been of little help to us in building our castle, anyway. She is mostly a drain on our resources.”

  This point seemed to sway Osbern more than any other. “Damn right she’s not worth it!” He spat forcefully into the dirt, no doubt as he had seen many older men do to greater effect. “We’ve wasted enough time on this already. The skinny woman’s no use to us. And I doubt she ever could have killed a strong squire such as Drogo, anyway. If God simply chose that moment to take Drogo to heaven, then so be it. Get her out of here, Saxon, if she’s so important to you. But never let her set foot in Father’s lands again, or she will hang!”

  Osgifu did not realize how long she had been holding her breath until she finally let it out. There was no resounding applause, no joyous celebration—only a few murmurs of relief. But she knew that she had finally done it. She had helped her sister get another chance. In the meantime, she felt as if she had acquired one of her own.

  **

  6

  Last Tales of Mercia 6:

  HEREWARD THE OUTLAW

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  *

  “So when young, and as he grew older, [Hereward] advanced in boldness day by day, and while still a youth excelled in manly deeds. In the meantime he spared nobody whom he thought to be in any way a rival in courage or in fighting. In consequence he often caused strife among the populace and co
mmotion among the common people. As a result of this he made his parents hostile towards him; for because of his deeds of courage and boldness they found themselves quarreling with their friends and neighbors every day, and almost daily having to protect their son with drawn swords and weapons when he returned from sport or from fighting, from the local inhabitants who acted like enemies and tyrants because of him.”

  —Gesta Herwadi, Chapter II

  BOURNE, LINCOLNSHIRE

  1054 A.D.

  After washing his face, Hereward studied his reflection in the water of the stream. His face pleased him, the jaw broad and sturdy, the lips thick, the nose gently curved, and his pale eyes sparkling with slightly different shades of blue and gray. His sandy hair fell in a sleek swoop to his shoulders. Though only eighteen, he already stood as tall as most older men and his bare shoulders spread thickly with muscle. He had an appearance to make women swoon and men run in terror. He grinned with satisfaction.

  Then he recalled that lately, people had been calling him the terror of the city of Bourne, and maybe all of Lincolnshire. They tired of his pranks and brawling. Hereward believed that such complaints arose out of envy. They feared that one day he would grow up to become more powerful than his father. And perhaps his parents feared this, too. For rather than reward him for his victories, they only punished him—which made Hereward even more determined to act out against them.

  His reflection shattered as the water splashed. Hereward glanced around for the culprit. Further down the stream, some members of Hereward’s gang played in the water, but they were not close enough to be the source of the disturbance. Altogether, about twenty young men languished with Hereward by the babbling stream. Ash and elm trees spotted the surrounding fields, yielding swathes of shadow across the bright green grass. A few of the boys had taken off their tunics to bask in the warm summer sunshine. Others cooled their skin in the waters of the stream. The rest tried to find naps in the shade of the trees. Like Hereward, many of their heads still ached from drinking too much the night before, so they covered their eyes and searched for oblivion.