by Jayden Woods
The Fourth Lost Tale of Mercia:
Athelward the Historian
Jayden Woods
Copyright 2010 Jayden Woods
Edited by Malcolm Pierce
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Read the Lost Tales in any order you’d like, before or after reading the novel Eadric the Grasper, or completely alone as quick glimpses into an ancient world. For more news and updates on the Sons of Mercia series, visit www.jaydenwoods.com.
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“There, are, indeed, some notices of antiquity, written in the vernacular tongue after the manner of a chronicle, and arranged according to the years of our Lord. By means of these alone, the times succeeding [Bede] have been rescued from oblivion : for of [Athelward], a noble and illustrious man, who attempted to arrange these chronicles in Latin, and whose intention I could applaud if his language did not disgust me, it is better to be silent.”
—William of Malmesbury, Chronicle of the Kings of England, Preface
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HAMPSHIRE, WESSEX
993 A.D.
The intruder entered quietly, but Athelward recognized the footsteps of his dearest servant right away. The servant knew better than to interrupt the ealdorman in the middle of his work, so this must be an emergency. But if this was an emergency, why didn’t the servant say something? Silent or not, his presence wreaked irreparable damage. Athelward could not focus on his writing when someone loomed close enough to see over his shoulder, nor when such trivial questions plagued his mind as why the servant entered in the first place. Already, he felt himself slipping from his own stream of thought: a stream consisting of the dazzling rapids of history swirling in harmony with the sophisticated currents of the Latin language.
Athelward’s quill quivered with his growing frustration, then at last fell aside. It was too late now; his focus had been dashed upon the rocks and left to dry. Through gritted teeth, he said, “What is it?”
“There is a woman here to see you, my lord. She seeks your aid.” The Celtic servant, Drustan, seemed entirely undaunted by his master’s mood. Very little phased Drustan, who had a smug and rather reckless demeanor for a servant. Despite this, he almost always seemed to know Athelward’s mind, even without being told what to do, so Athelward kept him.
This, however, was not such a fitting example. Athelward could not believe he had been interrupted for something so trivial, and without more of an explanation. Because he was ealdorman of Wessex, thousands of people desired his aid every day. The fortune of a single woman, when compared to the importance of completing the great literary work Athelward now devoted himself to, was so trivial as to be completely insignificant.
Athelward closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The candles around him fluttered as he exhaled, casting undulating waves of warmth on his face. He did not want to waste his time with a useless conversation right now, especially with a servant he would probably expel from his service on the morrow. Better to simply ignore Drustan’s presence and get back to work. After a few moments, he felt as if he succeeded. He felt the stream of Latin words flowing back into his mind, the stream which flowed to his heart, then through his blood to his fingertips. He brought his quill back to the parchment.
“My lord? Her name is Golde. She says she knows you. She has a child with her, a little boy, and they look very traumatized.”
Athelward put down his quill with an angry smack. He turned slowly around, the wooden chair creaking beneath him, the bones of his back popping and groaning in harmony with the furniture. Usually, tearing himself away from his writing was a smoother and more gradual transition, aided by a long prayer and a little bit of stretching. This interruption was simply inexcusable.
Now that he looked upon Drustan directly, though through a haze of anger, he thought the servant seemed even smugger than usual. His eyes were twinkling, and his gaunt cheeks glowed bright pink. His short straw-like hair, meanwhile, was a total mess upon his head, like a roll of hay that had been rummaged by a bear. Athelward’s eyes squinted even further, for he now felt suspicious. “Golde? I don’t recall her. Is she of noble blood? Married to a thegn? Is she a landowner? A churl?”
Drustan shook his head at the first two questions, then nodded at the last.
Athelward guffawed. How much more ridiculous could this get? “What sort of churl? A geneat? A kotsletla? A gebur?” Drustan stared back at him with a dumb expression. Athelward waved his hands frantically in the air. “Saints above, who is she?”
“She said she was a friend of the ealdorman—er, now exiled, I think—who ruled Mercia. Alfric, my lord.”
Athelward sat up, attentive at last. Now, he remembered. She was a woman with long blond hair, a beautiful round face, and even less manners than the fool standing before him. Worse, she had been a whore, or something similar enough to be considered equivalent. But worst of all, she was associated with Alfric, and to be associated with Alfric—whose son had recently gotten his eyes removed by King Ethelred’s soldiers—was probably one of the most dangerous traits in Engla-lond at this given time.
Athelward bowed his head and crossed himself. When he was done, he looked back up at Drustan, eyes blazing. “What on earth possessed you to think I would want to speak with her, Drustan? Oh, I have a theory—you were not thinking at all!”
At last, with a heave of effort, Athelward pulled himself from his chair. He did not like to think of himself as old yet—though some might call him such—but he was certainly not heavy or unfit. In fact he was quite skinny, and any extra girth or awkwardness came from his somewhat excessive height. Moving from the realm of literary knowledge to the physical world of sensation and sin was simply a difficult maneuver. Once at last he stood and reclaimed his body, pushing back his shoulders and lifting his noble beard, he loomed over his servant and cut a respectable figure.
For a moment, Drustan looked encouraged. He must have thought Athelward was getting up to see the woman. But his smirk turned into a frown when Athelward took a loping step forward, craning his head low to look the servant up and down. He observed the ruffled state of Drustan’s tunic, then the loosened nature of his trousers. “You know better than to interrupt me. How did she persuade you?” asked the ealdorman.
“She, uh ...” Drustan laughed nervously.
Athelward crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the servant in silence.
“Well, she … um ...” Drustan moved his arms about, then dropped them again, helpless.
Athelward sighed heavily, his suspicions confirmed. “I will see her at church on Sunday and give her some alms, like so many others in need. It sounds as if she needs God as greatly as she needs money, after all. That is all I can do for her, Drustan.” He turned to go back to his table, feeling strangely victorious.
“She … she doesn’t want money, my lord. In fact, she says she wants to give you some.”
“What?” Athelward turned back around, intrigued despite himself. A wandering churl wanted to give him money? “Whatever for?”
“I don’t know, my lord. She just told me she walked all the way from Worcestershire—”
The ealdorman saw that it was useless to keep talking, and he had already wasted a great deal of time arguing with his servant, when it would have been faster to see the woman herself and send her away. Without another word, he strode past Drustan and out the door.
The sensations of the world beyond the sanctuary of his scriptorium struck him like a whip as he moved through his manor. At first he simply smelled people: that combination of musky, tart scents emitted by every slave, maid, churl, or thegn who passed through his lodge. As he ne
ared the outdoors, he began to smell wool, its bitter fibres coated with lard and butter to form air that stuffed his nose as he inhaled. This time of year, with the coming warmth of summer, lucky sheep got sheared all across Engla-lond, and anyone with good sense purchased some of the wool for himself. But at last he stepped outside, where the breeze was not cool enough to balance the warmth of the searing sunshine, but at least it eased the olfactory senses—except, of course, for the occasional wafting odors of hot manure and freshly reaped grass.
Through the glare of bright white sunshine, glowing green fields, and a piercing blue sky, Athelward soon spotted his strange visitor. She had the same long yellow hair he remembered, and lashes so pale they were almost white, which made her blue gaze especially fierce as she turned it on him. He stopped a good distance from the woman, all too aware of her persuasive powers, though he did not consider himself to be easily moved by matters of the flesh. Even so he could not help but admire her: the sturdiness of her small frame as she stood in the wind, the lack of weariness on her face despite the tattered state of her dress and shoes.
Then Athelward noticed the little boy standing next to her, head bowed and downcast, small hands curled into fists at his sides. He seemed as if he did not want to be seen, but Athelward could not suppress a gasp of surprise, for he saw the curliness of the boy’s hair lashing in the wind, and it occurred to him that this might be Alfric’s son. But no, it couldn’t be Algar, whose eyes had been seared out with hot pokers.
Athelward forced his gaze back to the woman, Golde, trying to fill his stare with as much stubbornness as he detected in hers. “State your business quickly or go. If your business involves Alfric I’ll not touch it. He was my friend once but his actions have necessitated my opposition to—”
She pulled a pouch from her dress and gave it a quick shake, so that he could hear the jangle of coins within. “This is as close to Alfric as my business will ever come. I took this from his manor when I went there to rescue my own son.”
“Are you a thief, then?” The historian felt uncomfortable, for the way she held out the money made her dress poof out and display more of her well-rounded breasts than he cared to see.
“Of course not. Alfric was long gone by the time I found this, his household and all of his belongings were up for grabs to anyone who could snatch them up. Including his poor blinded son, who he left to die.”
The little boy made a small whimper, and she pulled him tighter against her skirts.
“Anyway, it’s money, and I have traveled over a hundred miles without using it, all so that I could give it to you.”
“Why would you do that?” he cried.
She stepped closer, her soft lips curling into a smile. “Because I know you respect money, and you will take it in exchange for a service of equal value, even if that service is unconventional.”
He was impressed by the woman’s awareness of his feelings towards money, not to mention her obvious ambition. Some years ago, Athelward—alongside Ealdorman Alfric, in fact—had advised King Ethelred to pay off the Vikings with money rather than to engage in another bloody and meaningless battle. Many Anglo-Saxons had been embittered by this decision; even though it bought them some peace, they suffered the more immediate effect of losing their money, food, and hard-earned wares. No doubt some of the gossip surrounding the Danegald payment, and Athelward’s involvement in it, had been blown out of proportion. “I respect money’s ability to save human lives,” he said. “Nothing more.”
Her eyes seemed to twinkle a little as her smile broadened. “And
