The Fourth Lost Tale of Mercia: Athelward the Historian

by Jayden Woods

what if it could save the human spirit?”

  Athelward shook his head in puzzlement. “You speak nonsense. I told you, Golde: state your business quickly, or leave!”

  “All right, I will state my business. I want you to give my son an education.”

  “What!” He felt his own blood drain from his face. “I am an ealdorman. I don’t have time to—”

  “You are an ealdorman also known as the ‘historian.’ Unlike any other layman before you, you spend more time reading books and scribbling histories than gathering soldiers and sharpening spears.”

  “I … I ...” Instinctively, he felt the need to argue. She was a churl, and shamelessly sinful. But in truth, her statement made him proud. She recognized his accomplishment as being one of the first dedicated scribes who was not also a clergyman, while most people—finding it strange, and thus incomprehensible—simply ignored this feat. Perhaps she even had a vague understanding, if skewed, of what he valued. He hesitated too long to form his response, and she found the breath for more words.

  “I want to use this money for something even more valuable than a human body,” she went on relentlessly. “I want you to give my boy knowledge, and understanding. I want him to be able to make his life into whatever he wants it to be, despite what other people expect of him.”

  Athelward continued to shake his head, harder and harder. “That is not how God made the world! Men must make the best of the blood God gave them.”

  “Blood?” She looked puzzled. “If by blood you mean we are not in the family of some great king like you, then that’s all the more reason for you to help him ‘make the best of it.’”

  Athelward wanted to keep shaking his head, but a small crowd had gathered, and he found himself in an unusual situation. Her proposal was absurd, but indeed, she offered him a pouch of money, and it would look wrong for him to turn it down. He glanced angrily at the people around him: soldiers, servants, visiting thegns, and a few begging churls. He had made a speech to every single one of them, years ago, that their money could serve a greater purpose than buying mere food and clothing: it could buy them peace from the Danes. Now, a woman stood before him, asking to use her money for something greater than a physical comfort. How could he deny her that, in front of so many witnesses?

  And yet, even accounting for his own unusual philosophy, her request was absurd. Surely everyone else could see that? “I am an ealdorman,” he repeated. “I don’t have the time to educate a bastard child.”

  Perhaps he had gone too far. He could feel the disappointment of his people around him; they pursed their lips, lowered their heads, and exchanged knowing glances that seemed to say, “I knew he would disappoint us.” Meanwhile, the woman Golde’s cheeks flushed bright red, and when she clenched her fists, he saw the veins bulge along her forearm. No doubt she possessed more strength than her small figure suggested.

  “Time?” she said. A breeze gushed as if from nowhere, rustling her dress and tossing her hair, making the rest of her appear even sturdier. “You bought all of Engla-lond a year of peace—almost a year, at least—with ten thousand pounds. So if time can be money, tell me, my lord: how much of your time is this pouch worth?”

  She held it out again, and he felt so flustered that his face burned hot. She was turning his own ideas against him. She was clever, but her primary talent seemed to be throwing his own words back at him, in which case this conversation could go on forever. It was useless to argue, and to indulge her any longer would give the people too much to talk about.

  He grabbed the pouch and pretended to weigh it in his hand, calculating. But how could he calculate the worth of his time? The notion was preposterous. He looked at the boy again, clutching his mother’s skirts, big blue eyes filled with something like fear and hopelessness. He was either a churl with worthless blood, or a bastard, and in either case he was not worth even a fragment of Athelward’s time. But he had already caused a great deal to be wasted, nonetheless.

  “Bring him to my writing chamber at dawn tomorrow; I will teach him until mid-morning. That is all.”

  Clutching the pouch in one hand and his robes in the other, Athelward turned and hurried back inside. He could not erase from his mind the smile of triumph he had seen on Golde’s face before he tore his eyes from her.

  He hoped he had not made some sort of mistake.