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

by Jayden Woods

  As he rode across the swing bridge, Godric studied the Norman guards on the other side. They failed to impress him, also. After hearing so many rumors of their bullying nature and military prowess, Godric found they paled in comparison to the Jomsviking warriors with whom he’d once fought. These were ordinary men dressed in chainmail, their bodies drooping under the heat of the summer sun and the boredom of a long day. They stared back at him with wary glances, their gazes lingering especially long on the eyepatch covering the scarred flesh of his right socket.

  “I’m Thegn Godric,” he told them. “Lord Richard FitzScrob wanted to talk to me?”

  The guards exchanged surprised looks, then snapped to attention. “Of course, Sir Godric,” said one of them. “Please follow me.”

  One guard took Godric’s horse and the second led him into the castle grounds. Godric’s opinion of the castle continued to drop as he proceeded. The slaves cowered in the shade and the Norman guards stood idly by, all labor seemingly halted. Godric noted the mess of wooden logs draping the sides of the raised motte and wondered what in Valhalla had happened here. He didn’t know why Richard had summoned him; he hoped the reason had nothing to do with this God-forsaken mess. However, he appreciated the chance to finally meet the notorious Norman in person, whom he had only seen from afar in the shire court until now.

  He soon found himself standing in the lord’s hall, a meager wooden building which Godric assumed was temporary. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. Then he discerned the large shape sitting at the table through the candlelight. Richard FitzScrob’s dark eyes stared at him from a long, bony face, composed of a drooping mouth and thick furrowed eyebrows. The man’s short haircut only emphasized the hugeness of his skull and the thickness of his overall frame. The lord was large without being fat, and Godric admired that in a man who had trouble getting around.

  Godric had met various kings, earls, and chiefs in his lifetime. Nonetheless, he had never been very good with formalities. Perhaps because he had never cared for authority.

  He found himself bowing awkwardly. “Lord Richard.”

  “Godric Eadricson. Or is it Thorkellson?”

  Godric’s eye narrowed. He had tried to come clean with his identity years ago. Members of the royal court had only known him as “Thorkellson” during the reign of King Canute, when Godric pretended to be Thorkell’s son Harald. If Richard bothered to voice the question, he probably intended to make a point: he knew more about Godric than his simple thegnship in Shrewsbury. “My father was Eadric Streona,” Godric said at last, straightening and looking Richard in the eye. “Why have you called me here?”

  Richard stared back at him a moment, as if to make sure they understood one another. The only thing Godric understood was that Richard had already managed to irritate him. But Richard nodded, as if satisfied, then waved for the guard to leave the room. “Please have a seat, Godric.”

  Godric gladly obeyed, for the long ride here had left his knee aching. He appreciated a goblet of wine from Richard even more, which Richard poured and handed to him. Godric drained the cup in a few gulps.

  When he set down the empty chalice, he found Richard still staring across the table at him, his own wine untouched. “I called you here because I have a strange situation and I’m not sure how to solve it. I hear you are a ... capable man.”

  A warm thrill rushed through Godric’s veins. He detested his reaction even as his heart stirred with excitement. Did this man want him to kill someone? And why did that so entice him? He had promised Osgifu he was done with that life. However, he had broken that promise already. Hiding that secret from her tormented him enough already. Would adding another be any different? Or unbearably worse?

  His mind went round in circles until a long silence had passed. Richard watched him closely all the while.

  “A few days ago, a group of Saxons came here and befouled my castle. You might have noticed the result outside.”

  “You were attacked?”

  “Not exactly.” Richard’s leathery skin turned a deep shade of red. “They were a group of young men, very unorganized, and by the looks of them I fear they thought of their crime as no more than a prank. But their actions deserve a grave punishment, and I intend to make them understand that.”

  Godric felt increasingly uncomfortable. “The law is on your side. Punish them yourself.”

  Richard flinched to be spoken to so brusquely. But he let it go, and after a moment, leaned closer. “This is a sensitive situation. I don’t want to appear as a tyrant. Nor do I want to make this about Normans against Anglo-Saxons, or I would send one of my own men. But I want to ensure that no one else ever attempts this again. Do you understand?”

  “No, I don’t.” Godric leaned closer as well, lowering his voice. “I’m not going to kill someone for chopping your fucking tower.”

  Richard leaned back again, duly unsettled. “I never said I wanted you to kill him.”

  “Then what in God’s name am I doing here?”

  Richard finally took a sip of his wine. His hand shook slightly. “Perhaps we got off to a bad start. Let me tell you more about the boy who wronged me. My men have already discovered his identity; the culprit abandoned one of his wounded friends, Dudda, at a church not far from here. Dudda gave us information in exchange for mercy. The gang leader is named Hereward, and he’s the son of Lord Leofric of Bourne, Lincolnshire. I’m sure he has plenty of money to pay whatever fines I may throw at him. That is why I want to make my point in a different manner.”

  “So you want me to ... ?”

  “Frighten him. Your reputation might be enough to accomplish that, if he has heard of you. If not, I don’t care how you scare him.” He leaned close again, eyes narrowing. “Nor do I care how far you go to subdue him. If you saw fit to kill him ...” The large lord pulled back again, shrugging his shoulders. “I confess the thought appeals to me. But all I care about is that you make a point. Any point you make will be much more profound because you’re the one making it, rather than one of my men.”

  Godric hated to admit that he wanted to take this job, and badly. He had known that right away, though he hated to consider why. Long ago he had convinced himself he enjoyed overseeing farmers, chopping wood, and tending animals as a daily lifestyle. Yet every day he fought the feeling of restlessness stirring deep down inside him, the desire to bring out his true skills, the need to face danger, the thirst for something like ... battle.

  He shifted in his seat, hoping that to Richard, he seemed to be struggling with the decision. “What do I get out of it?” he asked hoarsely.

  “I’ll pay you twenty shillings,” said Richard, though he sounded reluctant.

  Godric looked up, his one eye fixed on Richard with new determination. “King Edward brought you to Engla-lond. King Edward chose you as one of the few Normans to remain even when he sent many others home. You are a faithful servant of King Edward’s. And so am I.” He sat up straightly. “You don’t need to pay me.”

  Richard’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “In that case, Godric, you will most certainly obtain my friendship.”

  Godric nodded and stood, infused with a feeling of righteousness. By pursuing Hereward for free, he could claim he wished only to uphold the king’s justice. And by strengthening his friendship with Lord Richard, he could tell Osgifu he was trying to maintain peace in the shire—a rather fortunate consequence.

  He could hardly wait to begin. “Where is Dudda now?”

  *

  It seemed a miracle that the boy named Dudda had not yet died by the time Godric got to him. The arrow-wound in his leg bled, swelled, and oozed pus. The boy sweated profusely and his skin burned to the touch. He spoke nonsensically and his eyes glazed over as if he stared into a nightmare. Godric did not think he would learn anything from the boy unless he took drastic measures.

  “Light a fire outside,” Godric told the monks. “Bring me a sword, or a poker.”

  “You’re not going to
hurt him, are you?” asked one of the monks.

  “Oh,” said Godric, “it will hurt.”

  Godric took Dudda’s weight in his arms and lifted him with a grimace. The old wound in his shoulder ached and he silently cursed this boy for being so heavy. Then he carried Dudda outside.

  Only when he placed Dudda near the fire and stared binding his arms together did Dudda show any sign of consciousness. He started squirming and looking around in a panic. “What’s going on? Who are you? What are you doing to me?”

  One of the monks arrived with a poker for Godric, though the monk hesitated to hand it over. Godric took the iron rod and thrust it into the fire.

  “Hold him still,” Godric told the monk.

  The monk shook his head and lifted his hands. “I’ll not have any part in this!” Then he ran off.

  Godric grumbled to himself but did not argue. He preferred doing things on his own, anyway. So when the poker was ready he pulled it out and approached Dudda.

  “No, please!” Dudda tried to squirm away, but with only one good leg and two bound arms, he failed. Godric grabbed his shoulder with one hand and pinned Dudda’s good leg under his knee. Then he brought the smoking poker towards the bloody flesh. “Don’t hurt me! I’ll do whatever you want!”

  Godric hesitated. “You’ll take me to Hereward?”

  “Yes! Yes I will!”

  Godric didn’t know whether Dudda’s help would speed up his journey more than slow him down. Either way, he planned to finish what he started. He took out a pouch of ale and handed it over. “Drink.”

  Dudda obeyed. After a few gulps, Godric pulled the pouch back and upturned it over the injury.

  Dudda screamed and thrashed.

  Godric pinned him again, then forced the empty leather pouch into Dudda’s open mouth. “Bite down on that,” he suggested. And thrust the hot poker into Dudda’s wound.

  After a muffled scream, Dudda swiftly passed out.

  *

  Osgifu did not react well to an unconscious youth being flung before her doorstep. Godric began his explanation with the only statement he knew would win her favor. “I am helping him.”

  After that, his wife calmed enough to hear his description of the talk with Lord Richard and the mission he now embarked upon. He followed her to the outdoor kitchens where she plucked warm bread from the griddle and stirred a pot of vegetables. Even when he finished explaining, she did not speak for some time.

  “We were going to kill one of the pigs tomorrow,” she said at last, her voice soft and distant. “I know how much you’ve been looking forward to some pork.”

  “I can have some when I get back.” He reached up and ran his fingers through her red hair. “Osgifu. I need to support Richard FitzScrob. His presence here is King Edward’s will.”

  “And what about forgiving our enemies for their wrongdoings? What about turning the other cheek?”

  “That is not Richard’s way.”

  “Fortunately for you.”

  The comment stung like a barb. She immediately seemed to regret her words, but she could not take them back. She knew Godric rejoiced in an opportunity like this, and the truth would now hang between them like a toxin.

  “I’m sorry, Godric.” She reached out and gripped his hand, though she continued to avoid his gaze. “I don’t like the fact that you’re doing this, and I admit, I don’t particularly like Lord Richard. But if you truly believe it’s the right thing to do, I won’t stop you.”

  They stood quietly for a time, their entwined hands a desperate attempt to stitch the rip she had sliced between them.

  “Have you heard from your sister?” asked Godric. He had tried to avoid talking about Elwyna ever since he heard she was in trouble. All he knew was that somehow, by traveling to Richard’s castle, Osgifu got her out of it. But he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened, and whether it had anything to do with Osgifu’s feelings towards Lord Richard.

  “No.” Osgifu straightened and put a practiced smile on her face. “But she will be safe where I sent her.”

  “And where is that?”

  Osgifu’s smile faltered. Godric realized he probably shouldn’t have asked. But Osgifu seemed so confident, he couldn’t help but be curious. “It’s, uh ... a cabin. Deep in the woods. Deeper in the woods than she was before. I knew about it because Lady Aydith ...”

  “Never mind.” Godric’s stomach turned. “I’ve heard enough. Don’t tell me.” He released his wife’s hand and turned to check on Dudda, who still lay unconscious outside the main hall. Their guest had acquired a companion. A splotch of red hair marked the presence of eleven-year-old Edric, who stood staring at their guest with big blue eyes.

  “Damn,” growled Godric, and made his way towards his son.

  Edric immediately cowered as Godric approached, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Godric loomed over him and crossed his arms.

  The stubborn little youth did not back down. “Did you do this, Father?” He pointed to Dudda’s wounded leg.

  “What? No!” Godric crouched down to study the injury. To Edric it must look terrible, but Godric thought it looked better than when he first found the fellow. Now the flesh was swollen and burned, but at least some of it had folded together over the wound, and most of the pus had been seared out. “Well, I did try to heal it.”

  “Looks like you didn’t succeed.”

  Godric scowled. Then he reached up and opened his tunic. He pushed down the fabric enough to bare his shoulder, where an angry knot of flesh still marked an arrow-wound he’d received in Sweden. “My shoulder looked about as bad as his leg many years ago. But I used heat to melt the flesh back together and drive out the bad bile.”

  Edric did not look convinced. His gaze returned to Dudda. “How did he get hurt?”

  “He made some Normans angry.”

  “Normans!” Edric’s little nose wrinkled with anger. He had accompanied Osgifu on her trip to Richard’s castle, and ever since he seemed to despise them. “Bastards!”

  “Edric.” Godric lifted a warning finger. “Don’t you forget that I am a bastard.”

  “But you call people that all the time!”

  “Yes, well ...”

  “Time to eat!” Osgifu’s call saved him from coming up with an awkward excuse for himself. But Edric grinned from ear to ear, aware that he’d bested his father.

  Godric feigned a kick as Edric scampered into the hall, but the little rascal was too fast for him.

  They had hardly begun to eat before Dudda’s groans echoed through the dining hall. Godric told his family to ignore the sound, but Osgifu got up to fetch the boy some pottage. Godric did not budge until he finished his own meal. Then he told Edric to find some honey. They carried it to Dudda and smeared it over the angry injury.

  Dudda watched them with teary eyes, fearful yet desperate to trust them. “What did you do to me?”

  “I did my best to heal you,” said Godric. “Now you must rest. Tomorrow, we ride for Bourne.”

  *

  Many times, Godric questioned his decision to bring Dudda along. But once the journey began, he could not change his mind. The pudgy boy complained constantly and slowed their progress to a crawl. The strain of riding caused him constant pain. Godric searched for ways to take advantage of Dudda’s presence, despite his inclination to bash the boy’s head in.

  “Hereward abandoned you,” he pointed out one night across a waning fire. “Do you still trust him?”

  “I suppose I should have seen it coming.” Dudda slurped some ale as he stared wearily into the glowing embers. Despite complaining all day, his skin was returning to a normal color, and his eyes glinted with the first hint of anger. “He always put himself before others.”

  Godric nodded. In truth, he felt curious to meet the brave youth who would travel so far from home just to insult some Normans. In different circumstances he might have admired the fellow. But for now, he needed to focus on the boy’s faults. “Because of
Hereward, the Anglo-Saxons in Shropshire and Herefordshire will have to work harder and faster on Richard’s castle. Richard will be more suspicious of his workers and certain of his need to protect himself. Furthermore, he will now build more of the castle in stone. What else did you think such a petty crime would accomplish?”

  “We wanted to send a message,” grumbled Dudda plaintively.

  “And now Lord Richard will send one back.”

  An ominous silence followed Godric’s words. Dudda’s shoulders drooped over his belly. His sad eyes stared deep into the fire.

  “Please don’t kill him,” said Dudda at last. “Despite everything, he is my friend.”

  Godric’s eye met Dudda’s gaze over the flames. He hadn’t decided yet what to do to Hereward, but he doubted the rebellious youth would respond well to a heart-felt conversation. “Do you have a better suggestion?”

  Dudda sighed. “I don’t know.”

  Godric stared pointedly at Dudda’s leg. “Perhaps I could do to him what he did to you.”

  “Normans did this to me!”

  “Yes. Well …” Godric shrugged.

  “You could try talking to his parents!” Dudda sat up with excitement. “That’s what you should do. They’re already very upset with him. They are prepared to take drastic measures. Lord Leofric even told Hereward that the next time he misbehaved, he would be punished severely. ”

  “Mm.” Godric doubted any punishment from Hereward’s parents would satisfy Richard. He picked up a stick and poked the fire irritably.

  “Are you a Viking?”

  The question caught Godric by surprise. He had wondered if Dudda knew anything about his past or not. Now he had his answer. Perhaps the rumors of his past deeds—already more widely spread than he liked—had not spread so far as Lincolnshire.

  “I mean … you kind of seem like one,” Dudda continued. “Your clothes look Danish. You’re clearly a warrior of some sort.”