by Jayden Woods
*
Athelward did not speak another word to anyone all day. His servant, Drustan, discovered what had happened and knew better than to ask about it; he cleaned it up and closed the chamber up tight. Athelward sat in his room a long while, staring into nothingness. Eventually, he found it in his heart to pray, though he could not do even this for very long. He was simply too angry. Every once in awhile people knocked on his door, but Drustan guarded it, and told them all that Athelward was busy.
When it was time for dinner, Athelward went, but he sat still and barely touched his food. The sight of his son, Aethelmaer, gobbling down his own meal made him sick to his stomach. The fat man filled the silence by talking on and on, about this and that, this and that, but all of his words passed through Athelward’s mind, leaving nothing behind. They were meaningless. Empty.
Perhaps everything, he thought, was meaningless.
He drank a great deal that night to dull his anger and help himself sleep. The Lord must have been in a merciful temper by nightfall, for when he awoke the next morning, he suffered few ill effects for this indulgence.
In fact, he felt better.
He got up and donned his robes while his wife continued to sleep in the bed behind him. He thought about all of the work he needed to do: all of the thegns and abbots he needed to speak to, all of the walls and bridges throughout Hampshire and beyond that needed repairing before fall came. He already wanted to start campaigning for another Danegald to be paid upon Sweyn Forkbeard’s next return. That would be much more difficult to arrange without the help of Lord Alfric, who simply had a way of persuading people, which for Athelward required much more effort.
He thought about all of these things because he was looking towards the future again, and he could endure thinking about the future because when he awoke this morning, he found a reason to feel hope. In order to ensure that hope, however, there was something he needed to do first.
He walked outside and found the morning suited his mood. Despite being summer, the sun was low enough that it had not yet cleared the night’s chill. A soft haze covered the horizon, and dew glittered golden on the grass, and bugs thrummed about with the energy of the dawn. He made his way to the servant’s lodge, where he knew little Eadric and his mother had stayed the night. He stopped some distance away from it, stayed by its terrible stench. In that lodge all of the servants and maids slept, some on mats, some on the floorboards, and others on dirty rushes. Fortunately, Drustan had followed him, and he told Drustan to go in and fetch what he wanted.
Drustan came back out shortly and said, “They’re gone, sir.”
“What?” Athelward shook his head angrily. “The sun’s barely risen! I thought the woman had more stubbornness than that.” He took a deep breath and thought a moment. Then he made his way to the kitchens.
Fortunately, he caught them in time. The woman, Golde, was bartering with the cooks, trying to get as much food as she could before leaving on her journey to who knew where. Little Eadric stood silently by her side, his head and shoulders even more drooped than they had been when he first arrived. No doubt he had been severely reprimanded by his mother for failing her. Emotion and empathy stirred in Athelward’s heart.
Golde took some food and thrust it into her sack. Then she grabbed Eadric’s hand, and made to leave.
“Golde,” said Athelward. “Where are you going?”
He saw the muscles in her arm tauten as she squeezed Eadric’s hand; her eyes glittered like the dew as she glared at the ealdorman. “We don’t need you. We have a home and a way to feed ourselves in Worcestershire.”
“You don’t need me?” Athelward smiled as he looked at Eadric, but Eadric refused to return his gaze. “What about giving Eadric an education?”
He was pleased to see her determined expression waver with uncertainty. “But—yesterday—”
“Yesterday taught me something very valuable, Golde,” he said. He glanced at the cooks and servants, who were all watching him with awed expressions. “Let’s speak in private.”
Golde followed him into the field, away from the mouth-watering smells of breakfast being prepared. They looked over the chalky slopes of southern Hampshire, and in the distance, the haze was lifting enough to reveal the tallest buildings of Winchester far away.
“I thought Eadric ruined your precious manuscripts,” said Golde softly. “I thought you would never forgive him.”
“Yes, he did.” Athelward looked fondly at the boy again. “And that’s when I realized that, perhaps, they were too precious.”
Golde cocked a curious eyebrow.
Athelward heaved another sigh; remembering the events of yesterday were still painful. “So much hard work … so many years of study and labor … gone in an instant.” He watched as a bundle of clouds swept over the sun, casting shadows on the glittering earth below. “I know my work is important, but God taught me a lesson yesterday. It is not quite as important as I hoped it to be. It is not enough to save my knowledge in a manuscript, especially one that no one may ever read, save my cousin Matilda. Perhaps, even if Eadric had not spilled ink on it, it may have perished in the fires of the next Viking raid. No … it may not be enough to put my work on parchment alone.”
He could sense Golde’s confusion and burning desire to keep asking questions, but she was quiet, and allowed him to gather his thoughts.
“I do not think I successfully passed on my knowledge to my own children. They never understood what a gift I was giving them. They showed little interest, and practically no curiosity. I think this is a chance for me to pass the knowledge to someone who will pay attention to it—perhaps even use it. Despite his recklessness ...” He peered around the boy’s thick glowing hair, seeking out his eyes. Reluctantly, Eadric’s gaze met his, huge and gaping with fear. Athelward smiled reassuringly. He remembered how Eadric had asked, before Athelward commanded him to leave, if he would ever hear the full story of the Battle of Ethandun. His own children had never been so curious. It was Eadric’s curiosity that made all the difference in the world. “Despite everything, I sense a certain amount of potential in Eadric.”
“Really?” Golde sounded breathless. “You’ll teach him to read? You’ll teach him history?”
“I’ll do what I can.” He glanced back at his own manor. “I don’t want what I am doing to be a well known fact. It’s unseemly and would give people … unrealistic notions. And in any case, I am a very busy man. I truly will not have much time to spend with Eadric, especially now that I will have to rewrite my chronicles.” He grimaced. “My secretary Drustan knows a great deal, however; and if nothing else, I know plenty of monks who owe me favors. When I can, I will teach Eadric myself, and when I can’t, I’ll get a monk to do it.”
He looked at Golde, seeing the sparkle of joy in her gaze; but she was holding it back, maintaining a cautious frown. “Is there a catch? What do you expect in return?”
Athelward shrugged. “I’ll require you to work for me, of course. We’ll find a suitable job.”
“No.” Golde shook her head. “I would rather continue giving you money.”
The ealdorman scowled. “If you plan to go on whoring or stealing, that is out of the question.”
“I left a great number of pigs in Worcestershire. No doubt a lot of them have scattered and been snatched up by now, but I want to salvage what I can. I’m sure I can at least come up with enough money to pay you a second time what I’ve paid you already.”
“Why go through all that trouble?”
“No offense, my lord, but I’d like to ensure a future back in Mercia, once Eadric’s finished here. Less war there, right now. And it’s our home.”
He waved his hands with exasperation. “Do what you will, woman! I don’t care, so long as you don’t vanish and leave him motherless.” He took a moment to consider all of this. She seemed very wayward indeed, so perhaps he needed to give her a few terms, despite making up his own mind. “Come back at least once a year w
ith the money.”
“Very well. I’ll do that for however long it takes.”
“How long it takes for what?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Until he’s ready.” She reached down and ruffled Eadric’s hair. He, too, was smiling. “So we have a deal?”
“Yes.” The grins were contagious, and Athelward found one on his own face, as well. “We have a deal.”
**
READ MORE
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.
The First Lost Tale: Golde the Mother
The Second Lost Tale: Ethelred the King
The Third Lost Tale: Aydith the Aetheling
The Fourth Lost Tale: Athelward the Historian
The Fifth Lost Tale: Alfgifu the Orphan
The Sixth Lost Tale: Hastings the Hearth Companion
The Seventh Lost Tale: Hildred the Maid
The Eighth Lost Tale: Canute the Viking
The Ninth Lost Tale: Runa the Wife
The Tenth Lost Tale: Edmund the Aetheling
(The Lost Tales are available in print at many online retailers)
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, as compiled by various monks until the year 1140, were my primary sources of information. So, too, were the Chronicles of Florence of Worcester and the Chronicles of the Kings of England as written by William of Malmesbury. Without the devotion of these men to chronicle the chaotic events of their time, so little of the Dark Ages would be known. Other important sources are listed below. A full list of consulted sources is posted on https://talesofmercia.wordpress.com.
WORKS CONSULTED
Gransden, Antonia. Historical Writing in England c. 550 to c. 1307, Volume 1. London: Routledge. 1974.
