

### Last Tales of Mercia 1-10

Jayden Woods

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Jayden Woods

Edited by Malcolm Pierce

Cover design by Jenny Gibbons

_Stone texture stock by_ enframed

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The ten _Last Tales of Mercia_ are stand-alone short stories featuring real historical figures and characters from the _Sons of Mercia_ series. You may read them independently as quick glimpses into an ancient world, or as a preface to the novel, Edric the Wild. For more news and updates on the _Sons of Mercia_ series, visit www.jaydenwoods.com.

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Table of Contents

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EMMA THE QUEEN

To prove her innocence of crimes against her own son, King Edward, Emma of Normandy must walk barefoot over nine scalding ploughshares and come out unscathed.

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RICHARD THE NORMAN

When King Edward calls on his allies for military support, the Norman lord Richard FitzScrob must take drastic measures to make his Saxon subjects obedient.

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ELWYNA THE EXILE

To obtain timber for Richard's castle, two Normans will cruelly take advantage of Elwyna's hidden home in the woods unless she finds a way to stop them.

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RALPH THE KNIGHT

When a fight between a Norman and a Saxon gets out of hand, Sir Ralph must employ the help of a knight named Geoffrey to cover up the unfortunate incident.

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OSGIFU THE SISTER

Osgifu finds out that her sister, Elwyna, may soon be hanged for murder. She faces a hard decision of whether to leave matters to fate or oppose the Normans.

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HEREWARD THE OUTLAW

Young Hereward ("the Wake") finds out that a Norman castle is being built in Shropshire and rides with a group of rowdy boys to cause trouble.

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GODRIC THE THEGN

When Richard FitzScrob asks Godric to hunt for the youth who desecrated his castle, Godric's loyalty to King Edward and the Normans will be put to the test.

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AUDREY THE SLAVE

Audrey schemes to escape from slavery at Lord Richard's castle. But the cruel knight Geoffrey keeps a close watch on her every move.

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SIGURD THE GLEEMAN

Sigurd, once a minstrel and royal courtier, struggles to determine the nature of his relationship with Thegn Godric when Lord Alfric enters his life.

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OSBERN THE SON

The keep of the Norman castle is finally finished. But when Osbern cannot convince the Saxon Edric to attend the celebration, his own resentment surfaces.

Clip from Edric the Wild

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1

### Last Tales of Mercia 1:

### EMMA THE QUEEN

(back to Table of Contents)

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"And this year, fourteen nights before the mass of St. Andrew, it was advised the king, that he and Earl Leofric and Earl Godwin and Earl Siward with their retinue, should ride from Gloucester to Winchester unawares upon the lady [Emma]; and they deprived her of all the treasures that she had; which were immense; because she was formerly very hard upon the king her son, and did less for him than he wished before he was king, and also since ..."

—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, Entry for Year 1043

WINCHESTER

Late 1040's A.D.

"Is the tomb secure?"

Queen Emma's question hung in the air for a few moments, sending a coarse echo through the chilled stones of the underground hallway. The abbess of Wherwell, who had served as Emma's prison warden before following her here to Winchester, blinked at the queen through tightly-narrowed lids. Abbess Mildred's woolen wimple wrapped her hair and neck completely, leaving nothing but a small weaselly face to peer out at the queen. The manner of cruelty suggested by Mildred's beady eyes never ceased to amaze Emma, especially when compared to the kind but sharp-witted soul that actually lurked behind them. Those same eyes now twinkled with a combination of daring and caution.

"I suppose that depends on what you mean by 'secure,'" said the abbess with her nasally voice.

Queen Emma stared into the flickering shadows of the Old Minster before her. Once upon a time, this hollow chamber full of shifting shadows and the ghostly echo of silence might have sparked her imagination and ignited many nightmares. Now, as an old woman of nearly sixty years who had seen murder, war, and treachery of every sort, she took comfort in such darkness and quietude. She could imagine little that would frighten her beyond what she had already witnessed. These days, she only feared that her own life would be forgotten, or—maybe worse—that people would remember her for false and vile deeds she never committed.

She sighed heavily, tiring of the game she must play, and at last replied, "By secure, I mean that my prayer will fall on friendly ears, and none other."

"It is secure enough for that, my lady. Only the Lord and His own good agents will hear your prayers." A smile cracked Mildred's thin lips. "Of that I can assure you."

"Thank you, Mildred." Emma moved forward, her robes whispering against the stones.

"Stop there."

A hard shoulder knocked Emma's as a housecarl moved around her. Emma jolted, having forgotten the warrior's presence. The iron of his sword flashed in the candlelight and his chain mail jangled with obscene loudness. Even now, after all the humiliation she had suffered, Queen Emma had not grown accustomed to the rudeness with which King Edward's guards treated her. No matter what the charges against her, they should never forget that she had been the wife of two kings, and the mother of two more.

The housecarl continued his brazen sweep of the chamber, grabbing a torch from the wall and thrusting its flames into the shadows of the Old Minster. Eventually, he approached the tomb of Saint Swithin, Emma's own destination.

Abbess Mildred's piercing voice rang suddenly through the room. "May God forgive you," she cried, "for your appalling disrespect for his holy ground. For I certainly do not!"

The housecarl stopped and turned, baring his grimy teeth. Emma gulped, recognizing the man as one of Earl Goodwin's guards rather than King Edward's. Some time ago that would have been significant, back when Edward still had his wits about him and recognized Lord Goodwin as one of his most dangerous opponents. Now Goodwin had slithered into King Edward's mind like a snake through his ear, convincing Edward to turn against his own mother, while Edward continued to trust one of the most skilled liars in all of Engla-lond. Goodwin certainly shared some of the skills of his "great uncle," Eadric Streona the silver-tongued traitor, even if the two were never really related by blood.

The thought of Eadric the Grasper seemed to transport her to another time and place, through a maze of lies and treacheries, into the miserable years of her role as King Ethelred's wife, to the moment that Eadric changed the fate of the country forever...

Weighed down by the burden of her memories, Emma hunched into the embrace of her linen robes. A lock of her gray hair brushed her chin, having escaped the snug wrap of her wimple and crown. She let it stay there as a reminder of how her own dignity was unraveling. She preferred to huddle in the reality of her modest clothing than fall too deeply into her own mind. Sometimes, remembering the figures of her past felt like stepping into a room full of cobwebs. If she touched one memory, all the others would cling and pull at her until she drowned in their silky grasp.

"Lady Emma will not be able to escape from this room," said Abbess Mildred to the housecarl, returning Emma's mind to her current predicament. "We're underground, for heaven's sake. Can the poor woman not have just a few moments of privacy before she..." Mildred choked on her own high-pitched voice. She turned away, but couldn't hide that her beady little eyes blinked back tears. "Before she must face judgment?"

Emma found Mildred's pity more annoying than touching. The abbess had probably been about to say "before she dies." Most people assumed that Emma would die tomorrow when she suffered her trial by fire. Emma wished people would have more faith in her innocence, which was why it was so important she prove it to them, even at the risk of her body.

The housecarl grunted and gripped the pommel of his sword, perhaps to remind them all of who was really in charge here. Then he heaved his big shoulders and replied, "True enough. This is as good of a prison as any. Stay in here as long as you'd like, then." A cruel smile twisted his face as he returned to the door, nudging Emma through it, and then slammed it behind her.

The thud of the wood roared in her ears a long while. It was the last sound she heard before the silence of the chamber enveloped her mind.

Careful not to disturb the peace of the room, Emma moved forward, her slippers swishing ever so softly against the floor. She watched the candlelight flicker against the gold embroidery of her robes, making it glow as if with life. She glanced upon the faces of the statues watching her from the shadows, wondering how she looked to them. Did she appear to be a poor old lady about to meet her death? Or did she look like a grand queen whose weathered appearance was only an indication of all the hardship she had survived and overcome?

She nearly lost her footing when she noticed the sarcophagus of King Canute to her left. She paused and stared breathlessly at the burial place of her late husband. Then she diverted her path long enough to brush her fingers over the stones of his tomb.

"Lend me your strength, husband," she whispered, and fought back the prickling of tears in her eyes. Sometimes marriage with him had felt like a voyage in a neverending storm. But she had always known he could man the helm strongly enough to protect the boat, as it were; and she had always trusted that he would not let her drown in the chaos around him. He had always challenged her in ways she didn't expect, or pushed her to reach for dreams she would have otherwise left untouched. She had loved him for that. She had never known exactly how he felt about her. She had bound him to Engla-lond, as well as the Christian faith of the Anglo-Saxons. Sometimes, he had resented her for that; at other times, he had respected her. In the end, at least she knew that much.

Brushing away the bud of a tear, she turned and forged onward.

Eventually she stood before the tomb of Saint Swithin, the patron saint of Winchester Cathedral. Around the raised sarcophagus, the shrine twinkled with jeweled candelabras and a silken cushion. Emma knelt gratefully on the fabric, breathed deeply of the candles' smoke, then exhaled her supplication.

"Oh dearest Saint Swithin, who performed sweet miracles for the lost souls of your lifetime, please hear my prayer tonight. Perform another miracle for me, our Lord's humble servant, Queen Emma."

She waited, peering cautiously into the shadows, and mourned the fact that her vision was not as sharp as it had once been. "Does my prayer fall on deaf ears?"

"It does not."

Emma's heart leapt into her throat as a dark shape arose behind the sarcophagus. At first she dared not believe her eyes: a human figure stepped forward, gleaming with the finest robes and vestments. Then yellow light brushed over his face, revealing its familiar features, and Emma cried out with unrestrained relief.

"Stigand!"

She forgot the aches of her joints as she rose up and rushed towards the archbishop—the man who had been her counselor and adviser for so many long years as a queen. The man who had comforted her when she struggled with the frightening temperament of her second husband, King Canute.

She forgot all rules of propriety as she sank against his robes, wrapped her arms around him, and rested her cheek against his shoulder. She felt her own wimple fall back, releasing her gray and yellow locks to brush against his face. She inhaled the familiar scent of him, sweet with incense, carrying only a slight hint of the musky man beneath the wool.

He hesitated at first, then returned her embrace, pressing his hands to her back. "Emma. It is not too late. I have found a champion to fight in your name. He is a skilled warrior, and he would easily—"

"No." Emma reluctantly pulled back, meeting his golden gaze with her own blue eyes. His face was growing as old and weathered as her own, she realized, but this warmed her heart and made her smile. "That would not prove my innocence well enough, Stigand. I should be the vessel of God's justice, rather than two men with swords, if I wish to demonstrate my purity."

His eyes saddened. His hand reached up to brush back her hair. "And are you pure, Emma?"

She stiffened and pulled away from him. How dare he ask her that, of all people? And yet she knew by the weight filling her heart that he was right to doubt her. "My son Edward—or should I say his new friend, Earl Goodwin—accused me of three things. First, that I helped arrange the death of my own son Alfred." She managed to say the terrible words without wavering, but afterward, she needed a moment to regain her strength before continuing. "Secondly, that I withheld riches from Edward in order to give them to his enemy, Magnus of Norway. And finally, that I had impure relations with Bishop Alwyn of Winchester." She smiled sadly at Stigand. "He gets closer to the truth with each accusation. But of those exact crimes, at least, I am innocent."

Stigand regarded her with an icy gaze. He was a soft man, well-fed and a stranger to hard labor, but his spirit could be as hard as steel when he focused it. The candlelight flickered against his chin, emphasizing the firm set of his jaw. The graveness of his expression surprised her.

"Did you ever doubt it, Stigand?"

"I ..." He deflated and looked away, grinding his jaws. "I wondered about Alwyn, sometimes."

Emma didn't know whether to laugh or cry out with rage. Instead she made a torn sound of pure surprise. "Why would you even... ?"

His eyes met hers again, the regret in them cooling her temper. "I suppose I was guilty of the sin of jealousy. I could accept that you had to... withhold yourself from me, out of respect for the laws of heaven and your husband, King Canute." The confession clearly required effort; Emma had never heard him speak so plainly of the temptation that had always hung silently between them. "But the fear—no, rage—at the thought that you might sin with another man... perhaps it clouded my judgment."

"Oh Stigand ..." She resisted the urge to reach out and touch him again. Mirthless laughter burst from her throat. "How ironic it is! I never felt tempted in the presence of Alwyn, so I was more careless. I didn't go to great lengths not to be closed in the same room with him, or wonder what people might think if we took a long walk together. I didn't hesitate to touch him or show fondness towards him, for I knew nothing would come of it. I suppose that is why someone like Goodwin thought he could weave a scandal from it. But with you ..." She shook her head at the ridiculousness of it all. "With you, I must have seemed especially cold, for I was afraid that if I let any of the warmth I felt for you seep outward, it would melt my heart completely."

The firmness of his face cracked. Emotion clouded his eyes. He turned his head and hastened to change the subject, but she knew what she had seen behind his mask, and it gladdened her more than she could express. "If you will not accept a champion to fight for you, then we must think of another way to save you tomorrow."

"You're right. It is only God who can save me." Emma bowed her head. "I suppose it is not enough that I am innocent of Edward's exact accusations. I must be pure in the eyes of God, as well. For the truth is that while I never deliberately caused Alfred to die, I was foolish to invite him to Engla-lond without being more cautious. I was even more foolish leave him in the care of Goodwin, the true murderer. And it is true that sometimes, even now, I blame myself for what happened."

"Emma ..."

She ignored Stigand and looked up at the tomb of Saint Swithin, hoping to draw strength from it. "Secondly, I did not save my riches especially for Magnus the Good of Norway, who would have waged war against Edward and all of Engla-lond. But I did withhold my money from Edward, and I did believe that Magnus would have made a better king than my son; it was almost as if Edward could sense that. Magnus once made a treaty with my Harthacanute in Denmark, showing fairness and patience. He also wanted to reunite the North Sea Empire under one king, as Canute once dreamed of doing." She smiled sadly. "I used to think of Canute as conceited and greedy for having that dream. But after our many years together, I admired him for it. I admired Magnus, as well. More than I admire my own son, Edward, who now seems to love Normandy more than the land on which he rules."

She turned her gaze back to Stigand, knowing that in order to purify her soul, she must speak to him directly. "And thirdly, though I never had impure relations with Bishop Alwyn, my heart did not always belong to the men who were my husbands."

"Stop this." Stigand surged forward, seizing her shoulders in his grip. "You should not have to confess anything, Emma. You should be free of all guilt, for you have done nothing wrong. If anything, you are only wrong for doubting yourself."

She appreciated his faith in her, but she did not want it right now. "Then there is nothing else to do," she said, "but pray."

"That's not true!" His hands moved down to clasp hers. His forwardness unnerved her, but she took what comfort she could from his grip, nonetheless. "Don't you see? I will be there tomorrow, holding your hand as you walk over the nine ploughshares."

Emma cringed at the reminder. She tried not to think about what she must do tomorrow in any detail; she tried to keep her mind as blind to the truth as she would be when it happened with a cloth around her eyes. But now she envisioned the horrible truth, and it made her weak in the knees. Nine large blades pulled from ploughs would be laid out on the floor of the cathedral. Moreover, they would be burning hot, lifted from the flames of a blazing fire. Blindfolded and barefoot, she would have to walk all the way across the cathedral through the path of the blades. If she suffered many injuries and those injuries festered, they would mark her as guilty.

She became grateful for Stigand's hold on her as she trembled. She squeezed his hands tightly. "God save me," she gasped, "I only wish there would not be anyone watching—especially you." People from all over Engla-lond would gather tomorrow to watch her trial, she was sure of it. If she slipped and sliced herself on the blades, they would all witness her pain and humiliation; some might even revel in it. But the thought of Stigand watching her suffer so was the greatest injustice all. "Why must it be you who leads me over the ploughshares?"

"Because I volunteered." The exhilaration in his voice surprised her. His eyes blazed into hers. "Emma, if you are willing to let me, I can guide you tomorrow. I will be holding one of your hands as you walk forth; a second bishop will hold the other. Our task is to keep you walking forward, so you do not tarry too long, or wander from the path of blades completely. But I can do more than that, if you let me."

Initially, the suggestion affronted her. Did he advise a form of cheating? She should have dismissed the thought completely. Instead she found herself asking, "What of the other bishop?"

Stigand considered this a moment. "I'm not sure who it will be, but if my fears are correct, the other bishop may be Robert himself, the new Archbishop of Canterbury."

A tendril of hate snaked through Emma's belly. "He's the Norman who suggested I undergo this trial in the first place!"

Stigand nodded reluctantly.

Emma shook her head at the ridiculousness of the situation. "How strange that I spent my childhood in Normandy, then my adolescence in Engla-lond, and now my heart belongs to the latter kingdom. For Edward, I feel the opposite happened. He spent his tender years between youth and adulthood with his Norman relatives, and they have seized his heart until there is room for nothing else! I find it hard to believe that he has already made Robert of Jumièges the most powerful man of our church. But I suppose I cannot deny it forever."

Stigand bowed his head in affirmation. "Several other Norman lords now hold positions of power in Engla-lond. But that is not our concern now, Emma. You can do nothing about it until we have restored you to your former status."

"You are right about that." She met his gaze fearlessly. "So tell me what you have in mind."

*

She felt brave until the blindfold wrapped around her eyes.

Until that moment, she conducted herself with the utmost dignity and courage. She strode into the wondrous nave of Winchester Cathedral. She faced the roiling crowds of laymen, bishops, and nobles. She stared down her son from the other side of the room; she could not see him well now, but she knew his face well enough to imagine it. The crown would be weighing heavily upon his gentle face, golden hair, and lanky limbs. He would frown a little to see that his mother had chosen to go through with this dangerous trial, though he still believed her guilty. Then he would listen to the whisper of Archbishop Robert in his ear, that foul Norman, and his frown of concern would become a scowl of condemnation.

The crowds were even denser than she'd expected. Bodies stuffed the church in every corner she looked. More strained to watch through the windows and doorway. Their murmuring voices created a roar in her ears that grated down her bones. Her head grew dizzy as her eyes searched the multitude, trying to find a familiar face.

Then she saw Stigand, and all her courage returned to her.

Archbishop Robert called the mob to order and read to them her charges. The crowd surged with rage at each accusation, especially the last, claiming that she'd had impure relations with Bishop Alwyn. "May she cross four ploughsares to prove her own innocence," said the Norman, "and five more to prove Bishop Alwyn's."

The congregation rumbled with a combination of assent and discontent. It warmed her heart that at least a few who had gathered here today did so to cheer for her. Nonetheless, she was gladder still when the room went silent as she stepped forward.

"My king and son," she said, staring down the nave of the church to King Edward. As the entire audience went still, her voice reverberated down the stone walls, demanding the attention of every living creature in earshot. "I, Emma, who bore and brought you forth—as well as my dear son Alfred—invoke God to bear witness to me this day. May I perish if what has been charged against me ever even entered my mind."

Her guilt slammed her stomach after that last line. She referred primarily to the charge of murdering Alfred. As for the other crimes... perhaps she had considered supporting Magnus at one time or another. Perhaps her heart had strayed temporarily from her husbands. But she remembered her conversation with Stigand, and this gave her strength. She had done nothing she regretted. And in the end, it would be God who judged her today; not Edward. Only God knew her heart and soul, and only God could judge her accordingly.

Servants finished sweeping the nave of the church of any and all debris. Then King Edward waved his hand, and in walked monks carrying the nine ploughshares, each glowing red with the heat of the fires from with they'd been plucked.

Even then, Emma stayed strong. A bishop standing next to her gently took hold of her and turned her around so that she would not see the placement of the blades. She heard the scraping of the hot iron as it slid over the pavement. Her heart raced against her ribcage, but she took a deep breath and calmed herself. She knew that even though the blades would lie very close to each other, there would be at least a small amount of space between them—barely enough to walk through unscathed, if everything went according to plan.

She reached up and peeled off her outer robes until she stood in nothing but a soft linen shift. She pulled off her shoes and pressed her bare skin to the cold grains of the floor. A little chill went through her, but she stifled it with her resolve.

Then the monks wrapped the cloth around her eyes, plunging her into darkness, and her fear rose up to suffocate her.

Her heart thundered in her ears. Her knees threatened to buckle. Two hands grabbed her shoulders and turned her back around. Her frantic imagination rushed to occupy the darkness of the blindfold with the most terrible visage of what lay ahead. She saw herself stepping onto the blades and scorching her flesh. She heard herself screaming and tumbling and tearing her feet to shreds as she hastened to run over the remaining ploughshares. She imagined the people laughing, or else cheering for justice and her ongoing demise. She swallowed back a whimper before it could resound from her throat.

Then a soft touch brushed her right hand, and even though she could not see him, she knew who it was. Stigand. She squeezed back against his fingers.

"Are you ready?" he asked her quietly.

Before she could respond, another grip seized her left hand and yanked her forward.

She doubted it was Archbishop Robert himself, though it might as well have been. When she last saw her Norman enemy, he had been standing next to the king, eager to witness her humiliation. He must have decided he would rather witness her trial and deal judgment upon her than lend a hand to her demise. He had probably sent a bishop as equally dedicated to her failure as himself to lead her over the blades.

Stigand could only slow down the pace so much as they proceeded forward. Emma could already feel herself tripping over her reluctant feet. Why were her legs so stiff? She had felt courageous only a moment ago. Now she knew that she walked towards her doom, and it required all of her willpower not to pull away from the bishops and run as fast as she could from the cathedral.

A roaring sound filled her mind, and at first she thought this was her own terror, deafening her as equally as she was already blinded. Then she discerned people's voices amidst the cacophony and, after that, words.

"Long live Emma!"

"God save our Queen!"

She knew that not everyone yelled in her favor, but perhaps God allowed her to hear the people who did, and this gave her enough courage to continue. She managed not to stumble as the unknown bishop gave her another tug forward. She felt the heat of the blades warming the air near her toes, and she knew she was about to step upon them. She must not lose heart now, though another tremble shook her knees.

The voices fed her strength. She lifted one foot and prepared to place it forward. Stigand tugged her little finger. She lifted her face heavenward even as she rotated her raised foot slightly left. "Oh God," she said aloud, "who saved Susannah from the malice of the wicked elders, and the three children from the furnace of fire, save me from the fire prepared for me, for the sake of your holy servant Swithin."

Then she planted her foot on the ground and her skin met stone.

Sounds of lamentation arose from the crowd, making her wonder if she had actually stepped upon a blade while her own shock and denial kept her from realizing it. Then she felt the sting of hot metal brushing her ankle, and she knew she judged her situation correctly. She had stepped into a safe crack between the blades, so small that she probably seemed to stand upon the scorching iron to everyone watching.

She lifted her other foot while listening to the ongoing moans of the congregation. They were so certain of her peril that they did not watch her closely enough. Either way, their concern for her came as a great encouragement. She would prove herself today, not only for her own sake, but for those who still loved her.

Stigand gave her wrist a slight push upward.

Her foot came down again, and the bishop's tug on her left hand gave her no time to second-guess herself. She pushed her foot a little further forward then sank her weight onto the leg.

When she realized that she had stepped into safety once more, she nearly cried out with triumph. She felt like she could float into the air with glee. She had altered her movement exactly as needed, almost as if an angel guided her.

But an angel did not guide her. Stigand did.

Last night, they had gone over his plan in great detail. Stigand had figured out a way to hold her hand and make small movements with his fingers—such as squeezing one part of her hand, or pulling another—that would indicate whether to move her foot forward, left, right, or backwards as she took each step. He had gone over it with her again and again, even practicing it with her, until the movements felt like second nature.

At one point while they practiced, Emma felt so elated by the growing taste of victory that she allowed herself to fall back into Stigand's arms, listen to his deep breathing, and look up so that her cheek brushed his chin. A jolt of heat rushed through her, so intense she felt like a young woman again, meeting King Canute for the first time. But this man was not Canute. This was a man she cared for even more.

Stigand had stiffened suddenly, perhaps sensing her change of mood, and looked away from her. His touch had grown cold. "I think we've practiced enough," he said. "Perhaps we should pray now."

And so they had. They had prayed and prayed, or at least gone through the motions of doing so. For once, despite all the riches and holy items that Emma had bestowed upon this cathedral and many others, she could not put her heart in the act. She could only think of Stigand, and during the few moments in which she prayed sincerely, she found herself thanking God for sending him.

Now, standing amidst the burning ploughshares, Emma remembered the graveness of Stigand's voice and wondered if she should have paid heed to it. She had sensed, for a moment, that he felt ashamed of what he was doing. Ashamed that he cared so much for Emma. Ashamed that he would come up with a dishonest scheme like this in order to save her.

Then the guilt seized her too, and it did so all at once, like a fist closing in her stomach. She wobbled where she stood. The monk on her left gave her another yank forward. Then she found herself stumbling.

After that, her mind disconnected from her body. Perhaps it foresaw the demise of her flesh and retreated prematurely to the spiritual realm. She did not know how else to describe the moment she ceased to feel anything and yet her feet kept moving forward.

She saw flashing fire. She heard screams and shouts. Smoke billowed and revealed shadows amidst the orange light. The shadows took the shape of horses, riders, and slashing swords. She saw blood spatter and footmen fall.

She looked down and saw that she walked on dead bodies. She wanted to scream, but her fear petrified her. She felt someone squeeze her hand—Stigand?—and so she kept moving.

The smoke cleared and ahead of her she saw a Norman castle looming over the landscape. Anglo-Saxons did not build fortresses like this one; its stone keep towered high on a motte above the valleys of Engla-lond, and from that stretched a large bailey barricaded with walls and palisades. From this castle, all the blood flowed in swollen rivers to fill the pastures below. She looked down and saw that she now stood in the blood, and its level rose quickly to drown her.

At last she panicked. She tried to escape, thrashing with her limbs. Hands gripped each of her arms and held her in place.

Then she remembered reality. She realized that she did not swim in blood, but still walked between two bishops. She did not tread upon dead bodies. In fact, she felt cool stones under the bare skin of her feet.

The bishops released her arms. She turned her head in puzzlement, though she still could not see.

"Where are the rest of the ploughshares?" she asked.

Gasps echoed around the room. Soft hands grabbed her blindfold and untied it.

Emma looked upon the face of Stigand. Relief and wonder shone in his eyes. "You passed them all," he breathed, his voice almost a whisper.

The room erupted with cheers, applause, and cries of astonishment. Now that she could see again, the ocean of faces surrounding her was dizzying: nobles, peasants, monks, and laymen filled the entire cathedral with rejoicing. Each one wept for joy, laughed with relief, or prayed with humility.

A single groan of sorrow resounded louder than all the rest, and Emma turned to find her son as the source. Now that she had crossed the path of ploughshares, Emma stood only a few steps away from him. King Edward had fallen from his chair to kneel on the floor, tears trickling down his pale cheeks and into his blond beard.

"Mother," he cried. "Forgive me."

Seeing him this way, Emma might have expected to feel relief. Instead, rage poured through her veins. God may have proven her innocent of her crimes. But Edward was still king of Engla-lond. And now he groveled at her feet like the weak, cowardly child she had always feared him to be.

"I will forgive you," she said, "when you correct your mistakes, and cast our enemies from your court."

The roar of the congregation had not ceased. Her voice was nearly lost in the tumultuous jubilation. But a few people around Edward frowned at her—people she recognized all too well. The pot-bellied Earl Goodwin stood amongst them, the man truly responsible for the murder of her son Alfred. Archbishop Robert, the judge of her trial, had slinked into a corner and lost the will to speak. A few Anglo-Saxon thegns lingered nearby, but sticking out like a rock amidst jewels sat the large Richard FitzScrob, folding his legs in an awkward attempt to hide his crooked feet. Emma faintly recalled that this was one of the many Norman lords Edward had brought with him to Engla-lond and given a great spread of land on which to make his mark—and perhaps to build a castle.

Of a sudden her vision returned to her, and she felt the urgent need to express it. Perhaps if she had been more patient, she would have waited for the noise of the crowd to fade somewhat. But Edward could hear her, at least, and right now that was all that seemed to matter.

"I saw something as I walked over the ploughshares," she rasped. "I saw the Normans taking over Engla-lond. I saw their castles sprouting across the land, like weeds watered by blood. I saw their knights cutting down Anglo-Saxons and ruining the soil. Your people will die by the thousands if you let the Normans take root here."

Edward's eyes were huge with astonishment. The tears on his cheeks had dried, stale atop his gaping face. When he made that expression, he reminded her of his foolish father, King Ethelred.

Archbishop Robert swept forward suddenly, reaching out to Emma. She flinched but did not draw away as his hand brushed her forehead.

"Dear Queen," he said calmly, "God saved your body from harm, but I fear the trial has exhausted your mind and left you feverish."

She wanted to argue with him, but she worried he was right to some degree, for she swayed on her feet and could not come up with a good response. The din of the audience was fading now, but she remained dizzy, a strange ringing in her ears even as the room grew quiet. She was faintly aware of Edward and Robert nodding to each other, then the king straightening up though he remained on his knees.

"Mother," he said, "God has clearly saved you today. I admit to all of Engla-lond that I was wrong to suspect you of crimes that will never be mentioned again. Please help me atone for my mistake by striking me, once for each wrongful accusation brought upon you."

He motioned to a bishop carrying a long wooden wand. The bishop handed it to the queen. As Emma took it in her hands, Edward turned and bowed his head, presenting his back to her.

The entire room was watching Queen Emma now, listening to her every breath. Why had they not been listening a moment ago, when she needed them to hear about her vision? Feeling more and more light-headed, she looked to Stigand for comfort, but his face was pale and drawn. His eyes flicked to the king, suggesting that she should carry on with her task.

Her anger returned to her and she poured it into the wooden wand, lifting it high and then slapping it against her son's back. As she struck him, she thought of all men who had wrought ruin upon Engla-lond with their incompetence and insecurity, the worst of which being her first husband of fourteen years, King Ethelred. When she struck him a second time, then a third, she thought of King Canute, the man who came the closest to forging Engla-lond into a powerful empire, and whose legacy would soon be snuffed out by her own son with King Ethelred.

When she finished, the wand fell from her fingertips with a clatter against the stones. She stood there awhile, trembling. Then King Edward rose up, favoring his aching back, and turned to embrace her.

"It is finished," he said, and wrapped his arms around his mother.

Emma stood prisoner in Edward's embrace as her eyes locked with Lord Richard FitzScrob of Normandy behind him. She considered it futile to tell Edward that he was wrong, and that he had not yet finished paying for his mistakes.

*

In the cloister of Saint Mary of Winchester, Emma often managed to forget the troubles of her past and the haunting visions of her future. She sat in the garden on a warm summer day and felt the sunshine easing the aches of her aging joints. She listened to the music of the birds and the soft whisper of the wind through the trees. The sound of singing nuns echoed from the nearby church and she hoped they did not resent her absence. She silently thanked them for their discretion; when she felt the need to wander off on her own or entertain visitors, they did not question her.

A shadow fell over her and scattered the warmth of the sun from her face. But she smiled, for the man standing before her was Stigand, and she reached up to grip his hand.

"Archbishop," she said softly, straining to make out his face within the stark silhouette. "Why did you wait so long to visit me?"

His hand squeezed back against her, but his voice carried discomfort. "Because it is unseemly for a man to step foot in a convent."

"Never mind that." Smiling recklessly, she yanked his hand hard, drawing him next to her on the bench. "If they question my 'innocence,' let them put me to another test."

She had meant to lighten the mood, but as Stigand settled next to her, a frigid silence fell over them. The memory of the trial of ploughshares was one of her least favorites to revisit, and she had not meant to bring it up so soon.

They sat quietly for a time, acknowledging the gravity of all the memories shared between them, their many discussions of old, and the few words yet unspoken.

"Emma," he said at last. She turned to look at him, noting the bags under his eyes, the drooping of the skin around his lips. Nonetheless, his nose still cut a handsome line, and his gaze shone with vigor. "I have come to ask your forgiveness."

"Forgiveness?" She attempted a laugh. "Whatever for?"

He looked down at his clasped hands, wringing them over the soft folds of his robes. "When I came to you the night before your trial, I acted selfishly. I could not bear the thought that you might fall upon the burning blades and suffer fatal wounds. I felt I must do anything to keep that from happening, and my fear blinded me. I tempted you to do something dishonest and sinful. I led you to cheat on one of the most holy trials of our Lord God in heaven."

"Cheat! Is that how you see what we did, Stigand?" She grabbed his sleeve and shook it, urging him to look at her, but still he did not. "I think you are wrong. I admit, there have been times when I questioned our methods that day as well. But then I realized that if God wanted me to fail the trial, then he would not have sent you to lead me through the path in the first place."

His breath caught and at last his gaze met hers, blazing with the need to believe her.

She smiled softly at him. "I feel no shame for what happened that day, Stigand. Please tell me that you don't regret doing it."

"Of course I don't regret it." His voice cracked in his throat; tears glittered upon his lashes. "Emma, even if I knew it to be a sin, I would have done it a hundred times over to save you. And I would have prayed that God would forgive me, if only because I acted out of love."

Her heart raced. She leaned close to him and wrapped her hands in his robes, drowning in the comfort of his closeness. Then she kissed him.

By most standards it might have seemed a plain kiss, soft and simple, a brief moment of their lips touching and then drawing apart. But Emma knew it was one of the most passionate kisses she had ever experienced, and it meant more than any of her rigid nights in Ethelred's bed, or even her most frenzied couplings with Canute. When she pulled away, her body was unsatisfied, but her soul was at peace. She glimpsed the same feelings reflected in Stigand's eyes.

She sank down against him and rested her head on his shoulder. Together they watched the flowers of the garden sway with the wind while bugs hopped amidst the petals.

"There is something else that troubles me," said Stigand after awhile, but his voice was soft, its tone contemplative. "I have never stopped wondering about the strange words you spoke when your trial was over and you stood over your son. You said you had a vision as you walked over the ploughshares, and that thousands would die if the Normans took root in Engla-lond. Edward seems to have forgotten your strange prophecy, but I have not. Did you mean it, Emma? Or were you merely saying what you thought Edward needed to hear?"

"I meant it, Stigand." She dug her fingers into his robes, seeking warmth as a forgotten chill crept through her bones. "We may have faked the trial, but my prophecy was real."

**

2

### Last Tales of Mercia 2:

### RICHARD THE NORMAN

(back to Table of Contents)

*

" _Whereupon [Goodwin] began to gather forces over all his earldom, and Earl Sweyne, his son, over his; and Harold, his other son, over his earldom: and they assembled all in Gloucestershire, at Langtree, a large and innumerable army, all ready for battle against the king; unless Eustace and his men were delivered to them handcuffed, and also the Frenchmen that were in the castle._ "

—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, Entry For Year 1051

LUDLOW, SHROPSHIRE

September 1051 A.D.

"I am very sorry, my lord," mumbled the vassal. "But I'll have the rent for you next week, once we have finished storing the harvest."

Richard FitzScrob twisted his gloves with his large hands, finding the fabric more useful as a casualty of his anger than protection from the autumn chill. He would have much preferred venting some of his rage upon this hapless churl who most deserved it. Dougal was a so-called "free-man," according to the Anglo-Saxon custom, which meant he could own land and entertain his own life beyond the limited duties he owed his landlord. But again and again the tenant had fallen short of his responsibilities to Lord Richard, such as maintaining the fences for Richard's livestock or giving alms to the church on Richard's estate. Now, for the first time, Dougal had failed to fulfill his single-most important liberty as a churl: paying rent.

Richard shifted in his chair, thinking it would be nice to stand and loom over the kneeling Saxon. Then he remembered that his crooked feet ached quite acutely today. He glanced at one of his squires, Ralph, to step forward and loom in his place. The young Norman was a promising warrior who wore chainmail on a regular basis and had a way of standing that thrust out the pommel of his sword and made it the most noticeable trait of his figure. The squire walked forward, making his feet thunder on the floorboards even though he was not a particularly large man, and assumed the proper pose. Ralph even rested his hand on the hilt of his weapon in a way that made him look both casual and battle-ready at once.

The Saxon churl gulped and grew a notch paler. This response satisfied Richard, who overcame his rage enough to speak with a low, calm candor. "I feel I have been rather lenient with you," said the landlord, "in an attempt to make up for my ignorance as a foreigner." Dougal frowned a little, straining to listen, and Richard realized this must be due to the thickness of Richard's Norman accent. Richard gritted his teeth with frustration, then raised his voice a few notches, even though this did nothing to solve the problem. "But now I think I understand your English customs well enough to say that you have abused the privileges of your freedom and therefore we should change our arrangement."

"Please, my lord—!"

Ralph shifted slightly, just enough to remind the Saxon of his presence, which effectively shut Dougal's mouth. But a flare of anger lit the Saxon's eyes, and Richard recognized it immediately for its true nature. What Dougal hated more than anything was not his personal misfortune. He hated that he paid his dues to a Norman lord who had only lived in Engla-lond for a few years. He silently believed the Normans were common bullies who did not deserve their high station—just as all of Richard's native tenants assumed.

Richard sighed, regretting the tone that this conversation had so quickly adopted. "Listen, Dougal. I want to be fair to you. Here is what I propose. You are what is known as a geneat—do I say that correctly?"

Dougal nodded glumly.

"To take care of your rent, we can change your status to a kotsetla." Richard desperately searched his brain for all the legalities tied to this position. "You will no longer pay rent. Instead you will work for me whenever I require you. Right now, as there is still some work left to do from the harvest, I will want you here three days a week. I will either have you work in the field, or the stables; I will even let you choose which you prefer. Throughout the year, you will always work for me at least one day a week. And this service will replace your rent."

The look of shock on the Saxon's face pleased Richard. Surely Dougal was astounded by Richard's kindness. Surely he would thank Richard for overlooking his past mistakes and giving him work to do, even though he had demonstrated poor skills in the past. In truth, working on Richard's estate would give him a chance to improve his own skills, especially if he worked in the stables. The Anglo-Saxons were far behind the Normans in most crafts, but especially the training of horse-flesh.

Richard thought with certainty that these were the thoughts going through Dougal's mind. But then he got a shock of his own. The Saxon stood up and yelled, "My land will be my own one day! You won't take it away from me!"

Before the rage struck, Richard reeled in a state of bewilderment. " _Quoi?_ "

Tears actually glittered in Dougal's eyes. "I will work my own land. I will nurture it and I will buy it someday. I will become a thegn like my father before me and—"

"For God's sake!" Richard wanted to stand and knock this churl's teeth out. Dougal wanted to work his "own" land? Land that belonged to Richard? Land that had been granted to him from King Edward himself? His hands raked the table so harshly he felt a splinter thrust into his palm. Sensing his mood, Ralph grabbed the hilt of his sword. This was just enough to help Richard stay his temper a little bit longer. He clenched his jaws so hard his head ached, but he managed to hiss through his teeth, "I will give you one more week to pay your rent, plus a little extra for being late. Work it out with my reeve, Bartholomew, before you go home. But if you can't pay, I expect you to be here, working in my fucking _stables!_ "

"Yes, my lord. Yes, yes. I'll pay you next week. I will." At last, a cloud of humility softened Dougal's gaze, though it was not enough to abate Richard's wrath. He only sent Dougal to work out the details with Bartholomew because if he looked at Dougal's filthy face much longer, he might pummel it into the floorboards. Dougal must have sensed this, for he finally bowed low and shuffled out of the hall.

Richard sat there a long while, breathing heavily through his nose, clenching the wooden table with his fingers. Ralph waited quietly by, fidgeting a little, for as long as he could endure the silence.

"Well, my lord," quipped the squire, "I think you handled that surprisingly well. Soon they'll be calling you Richard the merciful!"

Ralph's attempts at optimism did not always work on Richard; sometimes, they stoked his anger to the blazing point. But unexpectedly, Richard found himself nodding with agreement, the ball of anxiety in his stomach uncoiling. "I hope that is the case," he replied. "I hope they will see that I am not the tyrant they imagine me to be."

"Sure, as long as this Dougal fellow doesn't fuck up his chance at redemption."

Richard preferred not to think about that possibility.

And so the two men remained in the dim hall, saying nothing, listening to the dogs whine in their sleep and the air grumble with the promise of a storm. The last thing Richard needed right now was rain to soak the remaining crops, muddy the fields, and lower his laborers' spirits. But it seemed to rain a lot here in Engla-lond. Surely enough, another burst of thunder cracked above, followed by the hiss of rain through the single window of Richard's hall. The window was covered with vellum to let in light and keep back water, but after a few moments, a drip plopped down from the ceiling above.

Richard thought longingly of the castle where he once dwelt in Normandy. He had taken for granted the stone walls of his keep, free from the stench of wood, be it pungently fresh or bitterly molded. The structures of his homeland were cleaner and stronger, built from the ground up with great care and skill so that they did not constantly require maintenance or repairs. How he ached sometimes for the security of his old home, the strength and nobility of its foundation, and the confidence that it was his own and he had earned his place despite the curse of crooked feet. He also missed the warm presence of his wife in his bed, though he hastily brushed that thought away. He knew now more than ever that she had been right to choose Normandy over Engla-lond, for her own sake.

The door of their meager hall swung open, spraying rain across the threshold. Richard turned to see one of his Norman knights, Sir Geoffrey, walking in from the downpour. He was a quiet man who generally did what he was told and never asked questions, which Richard appreciated, even if the knight's sharp golden eyes and mysterious demeanor sometimes unsettled him. His presence was unexpected, as he had his own meager piece of land and Saxon churls to do his bidding, such as carry messages to Lord Richard FitzScrob.

"What brings you here on a day like this, Geoffrey?" grumbled Richard.

The knight dripped as he walked to Richard, though he seemed undisturbed by the rain as a smile wound up his face. He pulled a scroll from his tunic, still dry and unwrinkled. Richard's eyes widened as he recognized the king's seal.

"The letter will explain further," said Geoffrey, "but I can tell you this much: King Edward has summoned us to war."

*

Dark brown hair fell in chunks into the grass as the servant swept the knife over Osbern's skull. The twelve-year-old endured the scraping with a firm expression, never flinching, even though his nose had turned red with the chill of the autumn breeze. By the set of his jaw, the young Norman already seemed to picture himself on top of a horse, wielding a sword, and glaring down at the rebellious churls underfoot.

Osbern's maple eyes widened when he spotted his father approaching. Richard usually did not roam around his estate unless on horseback. Normally, if he wanted to talk to someone, he sent a servant to bring that person to him. Walking with his clubbed feet on uneven terrain could lead him to fall and embarrass himself. Today, the morning after he had received his letter from King Edward, he used his cane to aid him. He felt as if he could go anywhere and do anything. A gust of wind made him grunt and stagger slightly, but soon enough he righted himself and kept going.

"Father! How do I look?" asked Osbern FitzRichard in Norman.

Richard moved closer to survey his son's haircut. The Saxon who trimmed it clearly did not know the Norman fashion, but he had tried his best to follow Richard's instructions. The front half of Osbern's head still possessed a dark mop of hair slicked backward; meanwhile the back half of his skull formed a clean sweeping line down his neck, wholly hairless. Richard smiled, then answered him in English. "You look like a man ready for battle."

Osbern grinned from ear to ear, then jumped up from his stool, brushing severed locks of hair from his shoulders. Like Richard, he was born with imperfect legs, but only one of his feet was crooked, so he stood sturdily enough on the other. He still had the body of a boy, but he was growing tall quickly, and he possessed the broad shoulders and thick bones of his father. "So I will get to fight, then?"

"English, Osbern. English!" Richard waved at the Saxon servant, who gladly scurried away. Richard leaned forward on his cane and lowered his voice. "If you don't learn to act and think like one of them, they'll never see you as one of them."

"But ... then why did I get this haircut?" Osbern spoke in awkward, halting English, made even more clumsy by the fact he grew anxious.

"Because it serves a practical purpose. Normans wear shirts of chainmail with coifs covering their neck and heads, unlike the Saxons. If you had long hair like the rest of them it would get stuck in the links!" Explaining it this way made Richard more frustrated. Most Norman customs served a practical purpose, so this argument would not work for everything.

Osbern did not realize this, however, so he lowered his head and looked duly chastised.

Richard sighed. "You asked if you will get to fight. I've decided you can ride with us to Lundenburg. If there is battle, I will want you to stay far from danger. But you're of age now. It is time you saw true combat."

"Yes, Father!" Osbern grinned from ear to ear. "Will we fight Vikings?"

"No, no. The situation is a little more sensitive than that, as I tried to tell you last night." He had been so busy making preparations yesterday evening, such as sending out summons to his tenants and calling for supplies, that perhaps he had neglected explaining everything to Osbern. "Do you remember Earl Goodwin of Wessex?"

"I think so. The pot-bellied man?"

Richard considered cuffing Osbern over the head for a remark like that. He didn't like it when people reduced their conception of others to physical traits alone. It made him worry that they thought the same way about him. But in this case, Goodwin was their enemy, so he let the comment go. "Earl Goodwin is the most powerful lord in Engla-lond next to King Edward himself. But he has offended the king by refusing to punish some Saxons who got in a fight with one of King Edward's guests. The Saxon fought with a Norman, Count Eustace of Boulougne, the step-father of our friend Lord Mantes. Do you follow?"

Osbern took a few moments to ponder this. His little brow furrowed in thought. Richard waited for so long he nearly gave up on hearing a response. Then Osbern blurted, "And Lord Mantes has been arguing with Swein, Earl Goodwin's son. Another reason for us to hate Goodwin's family!"

"Very good!" Richard was genuinely surprised. He didn't know Osbern had been paying such close attention. "So you see that we need to show our support of the king right now, not only for his sake, but our own. Goodwin is using this opportunity to challenge all of the king's Norman allies. We must remind everyone of our right to be here, as well as our ongoing devotion to King Edward."

"Yes. But ... what right _do_ we have to be here?"

Richard's blood rose suddenly to a searing temperature. He couldn't believe that question had just come from his own son's mouth. "We protected King Edward while his fellow English cast him out for a Viking! If not for us Engla-lond would probably be ruled by more Viking bastards at this fucking moment!"

Osbern had paled at the sound of his father's yelling. Then he gulped and said, "Right. So we are going to stab Earl Goodwin through his pot-bellied gut."

"Damn right we will!"

Osbern's grin returned. "So when do we leave?"

"Very soon, if all our subjects arrive on time today. Perhaps we should we check with Bartholomew and see if they're all here yet."

The servants' quarters were in a squat cabin across from Richard's own hall. It took him a good while to walk there, and he hated that Osbern slowed his own pace to keep up with his father. Fortunately, as long as Richard focused on the upcoming glory of leading his first Anglo-Saxon army—or, as they called it, a fyrd—to battle, he could ignore all relative discomforts.

Before they reached the servants' cabin, they passed the stables. Richard stopped and nudged Osbern towards it. "While we're here I want to show you something. Go on in."

Together they entered the thick atmosphere of the stables, which stung their noses with the stench of hay and manure. Even though Richard knew the smell should be unpleasant, it always brought him comfort, for it transported him to some of his earliest memories of Normandy, saddling and supplying his war-horse for the first time. Now he hoped to give Osbern a similar experience. He waited until their eyes could adjust to the dimness of the barn, then pointed to a horse several stalls down.

"There. The brown one. Do you see?"

Osbern approached slowly, reverently. The young mare hung her head over the stable door, nostrils flaring as Osbern limped closer. He reached out a hand and she flinched, then brushed her muzzle across his fingers. Osbern's eyes twinkled with delight.

"She is still young and inexperienced, but she has begun her training as a Norman war-horse. She will be as useful a weapon to you in battle as your sword or spear. Her hooves can break through barriers and knock men to the ground. More importantly ..." He cleared his throat self-consciously. "She will be your legs, whenever you need them."

Osbern nodded gravely, understanding. " _Merci, mon père_."

"Now let's see to our fyrd-men."

They finished their walk to the servants' quarters, where Richard expected to find his new soldiers gathered.

At first, Richard thought he had walked into the wrong building, for it was utterly silent inside. Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he only saw empty cots and blankets. It appeared as if everyone had gathered their things and run away with them. The raised fire in the middle of the hall lay dark and ashen. He suspected no one had been here all morning.

"That's strange," said Richard. "Perhaps Bartholomew has taken them elsewhere."

They moved back outside, only to find Bartholomew walking towards them. The small reeve stopped and gawked at them, ashen-faced.

"Bartholomew?" Rising anger grated the edge of Richard's voice. "Where is everyone? What's going on?"

"I ... I ... I don't know, my lord. They told me they would be here. They told me they would have their supplies together and ..."

Bartholomew continued rambling in search of an explanation, but Richard could barely hear him through the roar of anger in his ears. He took deep, heaving breaths in an attempt to dispel it. The presence of his son helped him find his patience. "Perhaps we did not give them enough time," he interjected. "Perhaps if we just wait a little longer ..."

The thunder of hoofbeats reverberated up Richard's ankles. He turned to see Sir Geoffrey riding closer, along with a few other knights and Norman tenants. They should have been arriving with a host of reinforcements, but instead only a few surly stragglers rode behind them. Perhaps there were only a dozen men in all.

Staying his accusations, Richard waited until one of his knights, Fulbert, came forward. The older man was one of his favorite vassals in Normandy, though ever since he moved to Engla-lond, he was more prone to quiet contemplation than active servitude. "My lord, the Saxon thegns have abandoned us."

Richard staggered in place. Osbern, who must have worried that his father would fall, reached out to steady him. Richard struck him away so hard that Osbern stumbled to the ground, and Richard might have lost his own balance if not for his cane. The fact Osbern actually fell only angered him further. Given Osbern's one good foot, he should have had better balance than his father.

Trying to ignore the blunder, Richard looked back to his men. This turn of events was so inconceivable he struggled to form a response. "How can that be? You mean they're just gone?"

"We believe the fyrd-men and Saxon thegns rode off to join Swein, son of Earl Goodwin."

"WHAT? Their families too?"

Fulbert gulped. "Their families hide in their homes for now. Did you want us to ... punish them?"

Richard felt dizzy. How could this be happening? He had been kind and patient with his Saxon tenants. He had done everything he could to bend to their ways and keep them content. Now they would not even ride with him to support their own king in battle. Instead they rode to the defense of Earl Goodwin, a man who stood blatantly against the Norman allies of King Edward.

For a moment he didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to say. His world seemed to unravel. If he punished the families of the men who rode with Swein Goodwinson, they would never forgive him. But if he did not, they would live forever believing they could defy him and get away with it. That was something he could not abide. Either way, he could not afford to lose the fyrd-men permanently. He had not brought enough Normans with him to create his own army.

"Suzerain?"

His men waited for a response from him, some master plan that would help them all save face before King Edward. Even Osbern, chastised by his blow, looked expectantly at his father from beneath his droopy brow.

Richard searched his men's faces desperately. How did they feel about this? What did they want? His gaze landed on that of Sir Geoffrey, the quiet man who brought him news of the war, and whose cold golden eyes sent a chill to his bones. Why was Geoffrey so calm? What was his secret? And then Richard realized something even stranger: of the few Saxons who had ridden here today with the Normans, they all sat closest to Geoffrey.

"You," Richard called. "Geoffrey. How did you recruit so many?"

For a moment, Geoffrey actually looked abashed. His fellow Normans refused to look at him. At last he said, "I threatened them and their families, Suzerain."

Richard did not doubt it. He also did not like receiving confirmation that fear would be the only effective tool against his Saxon tenants. He had been too gracious to those under his care. And this was how they repaid his kindness.

" _Merde_ ," he snarled, and curled his fingers into fists. Then he sent his voice booming across his manor. "We should not delay our journey. But when we return, we will take care of this!"

He would let his anger cool somewhat. But he strongly suspected it would not go away.

*

"When do we get to fight?"

"I don't know, Osbern."

"Will it be soon?"

"I _don't know!_ "

The only times Richard escaped his son's impatience was when he made his way to the king's council, leaving Osbern in the streets of Lundenburg with his trusted knights. Nevertheless, he really couldn't blame Osbern for such restlessness. After only a short while in Lundenburg, Richard came to realize that King Edward's summons had not been a call to war so much as a way to showcase the size of his army.

Lord Goodwin had amassed a large fyrd to rival King Edward's, but both sides were reluctant to fight one another. The English nobles on each side were long familiar with each other and maintained ongoing respect despite their differences. When King Edward pressured Goodwin's thegns to honor their old oaths to the king of Engla-lond, many of them relented. Goodwin's forces gradually deteriorated. King Edward and Lord Goodwin exchanged hostages and attempted negotiations.

The abundance of King Edward's troops, along with the constant demands of court, distracted the king from noticing the insufficiency of Richard's own little fyrd—a fact for which Richard was grateful. His neighboring Normans did notice, however, and though they said nothing, their disapproving glances pricked constantly at Richard's pride. From now on, they would think of him as the crippled Norman who failed to keep a firm hand on his Saxon tenants.

The next day at the king's council, Goodwin demanded more hostages from the king and would not enter Lundenburg until he received them. At the advice of Richard and the other nobles of the council, King Edward refused. He sent an envoy back to Goodwin telling him he had five days to leave the coast of Engla-lond in peace with his family.

Earl Goodwin complied.

The king dismissed his council, and as Richard prepared to leave, he found himself relieved. He thought perhaps his failure in this case would go largely unnoticed and altogether unpunished. He shuffled slowly to the door, waiting for the other nobles to leave first, so that he would not risk tripping amongst them.

"Richard FitzScrob."

Richard's heart froze against his ribs as the king's soft, chiming voice rang through the chamber. It was just the two of them now; everyone else was gone. A ring of torches in the room allowed him to watch his own shadow flickering around him, contorted into that of a hideous monster's. He turned around slowly.

"My liege."

"Please, sit back down."

Richard heard his own teeth grating together. Did King Edward think Richard could not manage to stand just a few extra minutes on his twisted feet? "No need, my lord."

King Edward smiled sweetly, the soft down of his beard spreading across his cheeks. The man had a delicacy about him that harmonized with his profound gentleness, so exuberant it emasculated almost anyone in its range. "Thank you for your advice these last few days."

"Of course."

"Politics here can be so very... messy, sometimes. As if no one really knows his place. I try to think of this problem as a practice in my own humility. But a king cannot always be humble, would you agree?"

"Yes, of course he cannot."

"That is why I miss Normandy sometimes. Do you?"

Richard hesitated, then bowed his head. "Sometimes, yes."

"I think Normans like you can help my people. You can teach them order and discipline. You can remind them that nobility and privilege exist for a reason. That first and foremost, one's loyalty should be to one's king, and secondly to those who do his bidding—not wayward earls like Goodwin."

"I couldn't agree more, my liege."

"Good. In that case, I have to ask you: do you need any... help, up there in Shropshire?"

A stone seemed to lodge in Richard's throat. Edward's eyes had flicked, ever so briefly, towards Richard's feet. The glance was so quick and fleeting that Richard hoped he had imagined it. But then he knew by the way Edward held himself—by the way he suddenly avoided Richard's gaze—that the king was making a point of his big clubbed feet.

His fists clenched at his sides. He felt the muscles of his arms twisting into knots. Then it took a great deal of effort to pry his jaws apart so he might speak, rather than grind his teeth to powder. "I appreciate the offer, but I don't need any help."

"Where you reside, you're practically in Herefordshire. I'm sure Lord Mantes would be happy to lend you some—"

"I don't. Need. Help."

Their eyes met. For a moment even the gentle king seemed irritated that Richard would interrupt him, as well he should be. But Richard lifted his large chin and did not back down.

"Next time you require my services," said Richard, "I will ride with all of Shropshire to your banner."

Edward hesitated, then nodded. "Thank you, Richard. I pray that you are so successful. Dismissed."

Richard bowed. Then he walked from the room, expending all his strength into ignoring the bite of pain in his ankles so that he might do so proudly.

*

Shortly after returning home, Richard sent his squire Ralph to keep watch over the smaller manors under his lordship, where the families of wayward fyrd-men still huddled in their wooden huts. When the first treacherous tenant returned home from service to Lord Goodwin, Ralph rode back to Richard and informed him immediately.

Richard called forth all his loyal men. He told them to arm themselves and prepare their horses. To one man he gave two horses and a wagon, which would follow behind the others.

As Osbern rode with the retinue towards the distant farmhouse, he remained dubious. His disappointment caused by his dull trip to Lundenburg made the boy unwilling to hope he might ever see action.

"Son. Have you sharpened your sword lately?"

" _Oui._ I mean, yes."

"Good. I don't want you to use it yet. But I want you to be prepared, all the same."

The faintest gleam alighted in Osbern's dark eyes. "To fight?"

" _Oui_."

Osbern smiled, his hand gripping the pommel of his small sword readily.

When they neared the little farmhouse, Richard pulled his horse to a stop, making all his men wait with him. He looked upon the sagging Saxon hut, the sheep in the fields, and the soft tendril of smoke drifting from the cabin to the sunrise. Two young children, a boy and a girl, played outside with the dogs. He thought he heard faint laughter resounding from within the little home. He wondered if the husband and wife were trying to find some privacy before they came out to begin their work. When Richard inhaled deeply, he smelled bread and wool, two common staples of a quaint Saxon home.

"My lord?" Sir Fulbert, who held a burning torch, looked at his lord expectantly.

As Richard exhaled, he accepted that nothing would be the same after this. His tenants had always thought of him as a tyrant. Now he would have to be one.

He nudged his horse and rode closer.

When the kids spotted the dark shapes thundering through the fields, they hurried inside, where there soon resounded a great bit of yelling and shuffling around. Then out stepped the tenant, still tying his belt around his tunic, blinking with shock and dismay at the sight of twelve mounted Normans with torches at his doorstep.

In the orange glare of the dawn, Richard recognized the man's gawking face as Dougal's, the same pathetic soul who had been late paying his rent.

"Dougal." Richard squeezed his horse's saddle with his gloves and shifted so that a loud creak from the leather indicated his bulk upon the beast. Steam blasted from the stallion's flaring nostrils as it snorted. "I hear that you ran off to join Goodwin's fyrd instead of King Edward's."

Even the hues of twilight could not give color to Dougal's pale, bloodless face. The Saxon trembled as he fell to one knee. "Th-that's not true. I only went... to town. T-to Shrewsbury, yes. And it took me a few days to... to gather the supplies I needed."

Richard glanced at his squire, Ralph, who had witnessed Dougal's return. "He's lying, Suzerain," said the squire in Norman. "I saw him return from the south. And he was dressed for battle."

Dougal watched this exchange with terror blazing in his eyes. Even if Ralph did not have such a clear case against the tenant, the look on Dougal's face confirmed the truth. "You could have stayed home," said Richard in a low voice. "I did not even ask for your service, for I knew you needed time to get rent. Instead, you felt so strongly for your cause—a cause rejecting the hospitality of your Norman _allies_ —that you ran off to battle anyway under the banner of Goodwin the exiled."

"No.... No please, you don't understand! Please...!"

The man was nearly hysterical now, bowing low in the mud and pulling at his hair. He already knew he was doomed. For a moment, it irritated Richard that this man was so afraid of him, even though Richard had never given him cause to be. Now, Richard would validate that terror.

He nodded to Fulbert, who rode closer to the house with his torch raised high. Then he wound back his arm to fling it.

"NO! WAIT!"

Richard raised a hand to his knight, relieved. Indeed, he had no desire to burn down a perfectly good cabin on his own plot of land. But he needed to show the tenant he was serious. "If you wish to keep your place on _my_ estate," he roared, "you will provide me with one slave of your choosing from your family."

His wife gathered the children about her skirts. Richard took note of them. The young girl with a knot of yellow hair on her head looked to be about six or seven years old. The boy was only about five.

"The slave will be provided for," Richard pointed out. "And when the time comes, freedom can be purchased."

As Dougal realized the futility of resistance, his body went limp with defeat. He looked to his wife, whose eyes shimmered with tears. Then they both looked at the children.

Richard tried not to squirm with impatience. The day might be young, but he would have to visit many homes today, and he would have to do it as quickly as possible, so that no one could prepare to put up a fight. He considered giving Dougal a countdown.

But at last a sorrowful groan raked out of the Saxon's throat. "Audrey," he groaned.

The mother crouched down and clutched her daughter tightly, tears pouring down her cheeks. Richard quickly surmised that Audrey was the seven-year-old girl. Dougal's choice came as no surprise. She would be of less use to them than the boy until she came of age to marry. And if they hoped to ever have enough money to purchase Audrey's freedom—not to mention this land Dougal so desired—both parents would need to stay and work the farm.

The girl, to Richard's surprise, cried the least of anyone. Instead, she stood sturdily as her family collapsed around her. A scowl twisted the soft features of her face. For a moment, her eyes met Richard's, gleaming with anger.

"When will you take her?" rasped Dougal.

"Now." Richard pointed to the back of his retinue. "She can climb into that wagon."

Richard waited for them make their teary goodbyes for as long as he could stomach watching. Dougal didn't seem to realize he was lucky to come out of this with his entire family still alive. A girl so young would probably not earn even her scant provisions until a few years from now. For a moment, Richard felt sickened by his own magnanimity. He would need to take a firmer hand with his remaining tenants and select the recruits himself. If he had a household full of young female slaves, he would never accomplish his goal.

"What will she do for you?" asked Dougal, as if glimpsing Richard's thoughts.

Richard smiled, proud of his readied response. He was finally going to make this sorry country into a proper home for his family. "She shall help me build my castle."

**

3

### Last Tales of Mercia 3:

### ELWYNA THE EXILE

(back to Table of Contents)

*

SHROPSHIRE

1052 A.D.

Life tingled back into Elwyna's limbs as she chewed on the freshly-cooked venison. The first swallow of meat flowed down her throat, filled up her chest, and then crushed the ache in her stomach until it dissolved completely. Despite herself, a little groan of pleasure escaped her throat. She looked with embarrassment at Dumbun, whose grin sent her into a fit of laughter.

She could not remember the last time she had laughed so gleefully. Dumbun often tried to make her smile, but lately, anxiety and fear smothered any fleeting mirth. For the last few months now she hadn't known whether she and Dumbun would have enough food to last through the winter. When she awoke at dawn today, she could not will herself to crawl out of bed until mid-morning. Even then her limbs were stiff with cold, her stomach gnawed on itself, and she felt as if heavy weights dragged upon her chilled bones. A week ago, she had sold one of the few items of leisure remaining from her days as the wife of Thegn Godric: a large, woolen blanket. Her primary source of nightly warmth purchased her and Dumbun enough food to last a fortnight, if strictly rationed.

The cruelest aspect of this winter, however, was the crushing feeling of regret that accompanied her misfortune. Many years ago, she had been the daughter of a successful thegn, Lord Lindsey, who once served Ealdorman Eadric Streona as an intimate hearth companion. Political entanglements cast him from courtly favor. To make matters worse, his loyalty to the dead Eadric Streona obligated him to give Elwyna to Eadric's bastard son Godric in marriage, even though Godric had no land or titles to begin with. Elwyna had been furious at the time. Even when her father died and Godric rose to the status of a higher thegn, she continued to resent her miserable marriage. And so one winter while Godric was away, she began an affair with their slave, Dumbun.

She could not explain, even now, why she had fallen in love with Dumbun of all people. The very traits she despised in her husband—his cryptic silence, his lowly status—Dumbun exuded tenfold. He never spoke at all and he was an impoverished slave. Perhaps she liked the fact she had no expectations for Dumbun from the start, and never would. Perhaps he attracted her because even though he never spoke, she could always see the truth in his eyes. His silence was not a torment he purposefully inflicted on her; it was a torment he inflicted upon himself, of which she one day hoped to free him. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, Dumbun had a gentle, submissive spirit. He would do anything to serve her. If she insisted on something, he would do it.

In this way, he differed from her husband most greatly.

When Godric discovered Elwyna's affair, he cast her from his home and his local community, never to see her again. Elwyna had fled with Dumbun to the woods where they built a humble home for themselves. Whoever owned this land had not discovered them all this while. And so she had been relatively happy with Dumbun for years, accepting her punishment for neglecting her past blessings and trying her best to find happiness in whatever good fortune now came her way.

But it had never been so hard to remain happy as this winter. A few bad strokes of luck had left them almost completely without food. On the nights she lay imprisoned by the cold and helpless with hunger, she could not help but wonder if she should have never run off with Dumbun, but instead stayed within the safety of her marriage with Godric. And those were the most painful moments of all, for they made her feel as if she betrayed Dumbun, and thus her own bruised spirit.

Today, Dumbun's lucky encounter with a deer laid all her worries to rest. At last, the pain of regret receded, and she wondered if she had ever been so happy as this very moment, feasting with her lover by the central hearthfire.

"I wonder if we should sell any of it," said Elwyna. "Someone desperate might give us a great deal of money for fresh meat. At the very least, we could get a new blanket."

Dumbun's eyes darkened, a frown tilting the weathered features of his face. He gave a simple shake of his head, then made a ridiculous scooping motion towards his meal with both hands, chomping his mouth up and down as if to eat more than what was on his plate.

Elwyna wanted to laugh, but she felt a twinge of disappointment. She had hoped that having something to trade would give her an excuse to go to town again. She saw people so rarely these days. But she didn't have much of a choice on the matter. Godric had cast her out; most people knew who she was and of what she was accused, and she could not hide her identity very easily. Her bright red hair often gave her away. "I suppose you're right," she said. "We need all the meat we can get. And perhaps we can use the deer hide as a blanket."

She returned to her meal, determined not to focus on anything else but how delicious it tasted.

Then a knock shook the door of their abode.

Both Elwyna and Dumbun froze with terror. Elwyna stopped breathing. Then she felt the burn of fear inside, like hot water spilling through her stomach, and her heart beat so fast she felt it thud against her ribcage.

The knock came again. Then a man's voice grumbled through the wood, his words distorted by a thick accent. "We know you're in there. Let us in."

Dumbun reached for the axe lying under their cot. Elwyna put up her hand to stop him. They should not resort to violence unless necessary. Nevertheless, she situated her dirk against her hip for easy access and tried to minimize its presence by gathering the folds of her skirt. Then she took a deep breath and stood.

"Coming!"

Her heart wouldn't stop hammering. Perhaps whoever owned this forest had finally discovered their cabin. Perhaps her life here with Dumbun would be ruined forever, and she would be cast out again, into even worse circumstances than before. Or perhaps not. Perhaps the visitors—he had said "we"—were only a couple of travelers passing through, with no idea that Elwyna and Dumbun lived here unlawfully.

She opened the door.

On the other side stood two men with hoods over their heads and thick cloaks around their shoulders. Their clothes were strange to Elwyna, for their cloaks were short and their tunics unusually long. But this did not attract her attention so much as the swords hanging from each of their hips. Two horses stood tethered to the trees nearby, their fur collecting a thin layer of powder from the drifting snow.

The two men did not bother to introduce themselves. They simply pushed Elwyna aside and barged in, bringing a gush of cold air with them. Then they crouched around the hearth and began speaking to each other in another language.

For a moment, Elwyna felt as dumb as her lover. She did not know what to do, what to say, or how to react. It took her a long time just to reach for the door and close it.

The two men continued talking to each other, acting as if they had forgotten the presence of anyone else entirely. Then they picked up the remaining scraps of food and started eating.

This final insult pushed Elwyna to her limit. "Excuse me," she said. " _Excuse me!_ "

The men stopped and looked at her, irritated by the interruption.

"Who are you?" she demanded at last, hoping they didn't hear the tremble in her voice.

"I thought it was obvious." The larger, older man looked generally bored with the situation and very reluctant to speak in English. He wiped his gray beard of the juices from the venison and fixed her with a flat gray stare. "I am Sir Fulbert. This is Drogo, a squire. We serve Lord Richard FitzScrob." Then, when she continued to stare back at him with a blank expression, "We are Normans."

He added the last bit as if it explained everything. Elwyna only blinked with confusion. "Normans? But why are you here?"

Sir Fulbert took another bite of venison and frowned at her while chewing. "Why? Because this is Lord Richard's land. And we have come to find sources of wood for his castle."

Elwyna gulped. Now she knew the name of the lord who owned these woods. Now the lord would know about her. But these men did not seem to care that they had stumbled upon her cabin unexpectedly. Perhaps the fact they were new to this land would serve to her benefit. They would simply absorb her presence along with everyone else's, not knowing she didn't belong.

For a moment, she was so relieved that she forgot about the fact they were stealing her food and taking over her home as if it belonged to them. She even gave them a genuine smile and said, "I apologize that we do not have more food and drink to offer. It has been a hard winter."

"This will do for now," said Fulbert. "However, I could use some wine."

"We don't have wine. Only ..." She caught Dumbun's gaze suddenly. All this time he had been sitting quietly in the corner, not interfering, enduring this insult as she did. But anger twisted his normally-gentle face, and the flinch of his body made her realize she should not tell them about their precious store of ale.

Sir Fulbert looked from Elwyna, to Dumbun, and back again. " _Quoi?_ "

Elwyna trembled slightly. She couldn't deny it now. Sir Fulbert would detect her lie. And she didn't want to test his reaction. "We have only a little bit of ale."

"I see." Sir Fulbert took a deep breath. Then he finished the plate of venison and leaned back against the wall, staring wearily into the fire. "Never mind, then. You can save it."

Elwyna gave a shuddering exhale of relief. Was he actually being polite, or did he simply not want ale? Either way, she felt profoundly grateful.

For the first time, her eyes focused on the second Norman—the squire, Drogo. He was a short but stocky young man, his neck thick with muscle. Now that his hood had fallen down, she noticed his strange haircut; the back of his skull was mostly shaved, leaving a thick shock of blond hair on the top of his head. The oils from the venison gleamed wetly on his shaven chin. His crisp brown eyes gave a startling contrast to his pale complexion, and she found the intensity with which he stared at her unsettling. As their eyes met, Drogo smiled, then his eyes roved down her body.

Chills crawled down Elwyna's back, but she tried to ignore them and hide her discomfort. At about forty years old, she thought she might be twice the squire's age, but he didn't seem to notice. She had always been a small sort of woman who appeared younger than her years. She looked down at herself, all too aware of the ragged state of her dress and the long, unkempt tangles of her red hair. A rip in the top of her dress revealed some of her chest. Meanwhile her stomach grumbled with hunger, but she preferred moving to the wall and sitting next to it than drawing more attention to herself by cooking more meat. She sat close to Dumbun, but resisted the urge to lean against him.

Drogo nudged Fulbert, then said something in Norman while staring at Elwyna and Dumbun. Fulbert followed his companion's gaze. Then he said something back, and both of them laughed.

Elwyna's cheeks grew hot with anger. Her feelings of injustice towards the entire situation resurfaced. What could they be saying?

The Normans kept talking for a while, their laughs growing louder and louder. Elwyna wished she could bury her head under the floorboards in order to stop listening. The fact she couldn't understand what they were saying only made her imagine the worst possibilities. Then Drogo seemed to ask the knight a question.

"What are your names?" translated Sir Fulbert.

"I am Elwyna. This is Dumbun."

"Why does he not speak for himself?"

"He does not talk."

Drogo leered. Then he spoke in stilted English, jabbing his finger at each of them. "Husband? Wife?"

Her heart raced again. She glanced briefly at Dumbun, wondering what he would say if he could speak. But he only glared at the intruders, offering no indication of what to do. "Brother and sister," she blurted at last, without knowing why. After all, it seemed better than the truth, which was that they could not marry because she had betrayed her true husband for her slave, and they had no children because God had cursed her with a barren womb.

The Normans sat quietly a moment, then burst out laughing again.

She decided to let them laugh. She convinced herself that their ridicule could not harm her. Tomorrow they would resume searching the woods for trees for their "castle," then hopefully they would be gone. Enduring this mockery was a small price to pay for the crimes of which she might be accused. But as she turned aside and tried to lose her thoughts in the waning fire, she could not dispel the sensation that her blood was boiling.

*

During the night, she regretted telling the Normans that Dumbun was her brother. She wanted nothing more than for Dumbun to press his body against hers, wrap his arm around her waist, and breathe softly against her neck. Instead she lay alone, shivering against the floorboards without even a blanket to shield her from the cold. Within the comfort of his cloak, Sir Fulbert sent a rumbling snore through the timbers of the cabin. The knight had taken the cot for himself, and even though he had brought a blanket, he used it to cover the horses outside. Elwyna's only relief was to move closer and closer to the remaining hearth fire, its dim red glow slightly thawing her skin.

When a warm hand brushed her arm, relief washed over her. She thought Dumbun had come to embrace her, and for a moment she didn't care whether such an action put them at risk. Then an unfamiliar smell burned her nose, like horses and leather, and the hand's grip on her tightened. She turned to see the smiling face of Drogo, who released her only to put his warning finger against his lips. She lay petrified as he continued to advance, his hand pushing under her arm so he could wrap his fingers round her waist, his body pressing against her so that his torso enveloped her back.

Her shock paralyzed her. What could she do? These Normans already seemed to think they were entitled to her home and belongings, even if they mistook her as a legal tenant. Meanwhile Elwyna was unwed, far beyond marrying age, impoverished, and living with a man they perceived as her idiot brother. Clearly, Drogo took this to mean he was entitled to her, too.

She wondered about Drogo's companion, Fulbert, who seemed to be his superior. Would he condone Drogo's behavior? She remembered how he had decided not to drink her ale after seeing the look on her face. Perhaps he would stop Drogo from going too far. But then she thought of the way Fulbert and Drogo had laughed together, often while leering at her unabashedly. She feared the worst. If she tried to wake everyone up, Dumbun would intervene. And then he might getting himself hurt.

Gritting her teeth with fury, Elwyna felt the squire's lips brush against her neck in the guise of a caress. He planted kisses across her throat. Then he nibbled on her ear. He whispered something in his own language, tickling her skin. Then his hand slid down her stomach and he pressed her towards him.

Elwyna's stomach turned with a mixture of revulsion and excitement. This man wasn't just trying to take advantage of her. He was trying to seduce her. She couldn't help but wonder if in different circumstances, he might have succeeded. But all she could think about was how he had eaten their precious venison as if it belonged to him, and how his chin had gleamed with its juices. Now he had the audacity to try and take her while two other men slept nearby.

For a while she tried to simply endure it, blocking his touch from her mind to the best of her ability. But this only made him more determined to get her attention. He grabbed her breast and kneaded it in his fingers. And when that still wasn't enough, his hand slid back down her stomach.

Finally, Elwyna responded. She grabbed his hand and wrenched it away from her.

She could practically feel his smile against her neck. He pressed harder against her, and then tried again.

" _Stop!_ " she cried.

She couldn't help herself. Her panic had begun to set in.

Sir Fulbert's snoring ceased. Dumbun jerked up and looked at them, startled.

For a moment, Drogo didn't move, only glared at Dumbun through the ashes of the fire. Then Sir Fulbert sighed heavily.

" _Demain_ , Drogo," said the knight. " _Demain_."

Elwyna did not know their language, but she had a sickening feeling she knew what the older man implied as Drogo withdrew, still smiling.

*

In the morning, the Normans helped themselves to more of Elwyna and Dumbun's precious food. Elwyna felt sick to her stomach as she watched Drogo consume a loaf of bread she had acquired when selling her blanket, and which she had hoped to make last a whole week.

Meanwhile, the look on Dumbun's face frightened her. He had always been a gentle and calm man. But that morning, he glared at Drogo as if his eyes could throw daggers. His hand gripped the dirk on his belt until his knuckles turned white.

Silent or not, Dumbun's behavior finally drew the Normans' attention.

Sir Fulbert cleared his throat and addressed the Anglo-Saxon directly. "So, Dumbun, you may not speak, but I take it you can understand me, _oui?_ "

Still gritting his teeth, Dumbun nodded reluctantly.

"Good. You must know these woods well. I want you to show me around today. I have already seen plenty of trees to use. The trick is finding places they can be conveniently chopped down. Can you show me such places?"

Dumbun's face twisted with concern. He looked at Elwyna.

"How many trees do you plan to chop down?" she asked for him.

"As many as we like. We'll need wood to build some of the basic foundations of Richard's Castle until we get enough stone to replace it. And we'll start by building houses in the bailey, for the workers and all of Richard's men."

Elwyna gulped. She didn't quite understand what a castle looked like. But she was starting to imagine it as rather large. "Sounds like you'll use a lot of trees. How will the two of you handle them all?"

"Us?" Sir Fulbert laughed. "We'll send slaves to cut down the woods, once we've decided where to do it."

Despite the winter chill, Elwyna felt sweat bead on her brow. These two Normans wouldn't just cut down some trees and be on their way. They would start tearing down the entire forest. And they would probably come back to this cabin whenever they pleased to survey the destruction.

Sir Fulbert watched her face closely. "You said your name was Elwyna, _oui?_ "

She gave a terse nod.

"Elwyna. What is your... status?"

She wiped her forehead, hoping to hide the fear in her eyes. "Well, I'm a free woman."

"Oh? But you don't own this land. Or we would have known about it."

She twisted her skirt in her fingers.

"Do you pay rent?" Fulbert pressed, dabbing his lips with a rag.

Elwyna's silence was answer enough.

"That is going to change now. And you'd better be happy that is the only thing changing." He threw the rag onto the floor and stood up.

Elwyna knew better than to argue. She remained sitting there, nails digging into her dress, afraid to look at anyone.

"Let's go, Dumbun," said Sir Fulbert.

Dumbun stood up, but didn't go anywhere. He was looking at Drogo, who still sat on the floor.

"Drogo's not feeling well," said the older knight. "He'll stay here."

Elwyna's heart nearly leapt from her chest. Before she had a plan, she scrambled to her feet as well. "I should come with you. In fact, with my help you don't have to go anywhere at all. I can tell you what you need to know."

"I'll need to see it. And your help won't be necessary."

Dumbun walked over to the bed and his pulled his axe out from under it. For a moment he just gripped it, the iron gleaming as he glared at the Normans.

"I'll hold onto that, _merci_." Sir Fulbert strode forward and wrenched the weapon from Dumbun's grip.

Elwyna's mind raced. She had to think of something, not only for her own sake, but Dumbun's. She feared he would never allow himself to leave her here with Drogo. "In that case," she said, "I hope you'll excuse me. I have to run to town."

"Oh?" The knight blinked at her with genuine surprise.

"Yes. You see, we're nearly out of food, except for the deer... which I intend to trade."

The Normans had already glimpsed under her floorboards and seen the truth of this. As soon as Fulbert considered it, he needed no more convincing.

"You're right. Drogo and I have some more food with us, but..." He reached into his purse and pulled out a coin. Her shock nearly kept her from catching it when he tossed it her direction. "While you're there, get us some wine, and another loaf of bread."

For a moment, she felt torn between relief that her ploy had worked and dismay that they might stay another night. Then Drogo got up and yelled at Sir Fulbert in Norman.

Elwyna listened to them argue with an increasing sense of hope. Drogo served the other knight; he would have to do whatever Sir Fulbert told him. Her eyes met Dumbun's and she tried to give him a reassuring smile. She did not yet know what she would do when she got to town. But she would think of something.

Sir Fulbert stopped arguing with the squire to ask Elwyna, "Can you ride a horse?"

"Of course."

"Good. Then take Drogo's. And make sure you're back by tonight."

Elwyna nodded, not sure how to interpret this. Drogo seemed content now. Would this night be a repeat of the last? Or worse?

She would do herself no favors by standing here and worrying. She needed to accept this small blessing and act on it. "Thank you for letting me use your horse," she said.

"Not for long," he snapped. Then he squeezed the axe in his grip, as if to make a point.

She collected a bag of deer meat from the cold ground and hurried on her way. She understood Fulbert's silent warning completely. If she did anything wayward, Dumbun would be the one to pay the price.

Drogo's horse, a perky stallion, seemed grateful for a reason to move his legs about. He trotted eagerly as soon as Elwyna released him from the tree and mounted him. She took the blanket from his back and wrapped it around herself like a cloak. Snow shook from his flank as he bounded forward, cracking the icy twigs and grass under his hooves. Together they cut through the golden beams of sunlight that split apart the forest and wove their way through the trees.

As Elwyna approached Shrewsbury, she wondered if she was only delaying the inevitable. What could she possibly do during a quick trip to town that would solve her and Dumbun's problem? She knew little of current politics, but it seemed evident enough that these Norman men possessed great influence, and once they established their large castle, they would possess even more. What could she do to make them leave her alone?

An idea occurred to her suddenly, one she realized had been lurking under the surface all the while but she had been too afraid to acknowledge until she considered all other options.

Godric.

Her ex-husband's name sent a shudder through her body, both unsettling and invigorating. She tried often not to think about him—not to wonder about how he had hid his true nature from her for so many years. He had never wanted to talk to her about his life before their marriage—about the fact he was the son of a terrible traitor, or the fact he had spent his early manhood under the wing of Thorkell the Tall and then served as a house-carl for King Canute himself. The implications of his actions beyond that terrified her even further, but also gave her hope. She sensed that Godric had something to do with the mysterious illness that afflicted King Canute until his death. For many years, Godric bribed the shire reeve to keep Godric's presence in Shrewsbury a secret from the king.

She knew that Godric was dangerous. She knew that he did not fear authority. She knew he had committed crimes in the past without ever paying the price. And she knew that he might be the only person who could help her out of this problem.

Her dread filled up her belly like a meal of rotten food, but she gritted her teeth and endured it and kept riding in the direction of Godric's thegndom. She did not know what Godric would think of her after all these years. And worse, she did not know what her own sister would think of her—Godric's current wife. Elwyna's hands clenched around the horse's reins as she recalled that Godric had always loved Osgifu since before he married Elwyna. The younger sister had been a necessary alternative for him when Osgifu joined a nunnery. And now Elwyna would go crawling back to them for help.

As if sensing her reluctance, the horse slowed his pace beneath her. They trotted onto a worn road near Shrewsbury and Elwyna noticed the first few farms through the thinning trees. Her heart stuck in her throat. Normally when she went to town, she avoided Shrewsbury to minimize the risk of meeting someone who recognized her. The frigid wind gusted through the rips of her dress, and she huddled more deeply in the horse's blanket.

She spotted a man on foot walking towards her and sank even further into the cloth. She wanted to ignore him, to pretend she did not even see him. But despite herself, she could not pull her eyes away; the man wore such brightly colored clothes they demanded her attention. She tried to study him discreetly, noting the bright white fur of his boots, the blue of his trousers, and the golden yellow of his cloak. Then she looked into his face.

She jolted. She would never forget that slender, smiling face, the trimmed blond beard, the bright green eyes. If she still had any doubts, she heard him whistling a merry tune as he walked, and quite skillfully at that. For he was one of Godric's dearest friends, a minstrel from the south, and he was the very man who had discovered Elwyna's affair with Dumbun.

Sigurd stopped and blinked back at her. His whistling ceased. And then Elwyna knew she had been caught.

She could have kicked her horse and run away from him. She might have escaped so quickly that he would doubt himself later for thinking he saw her and attribute it all to a daydream. But something froze her to the spot, and even her horse drew to a stop.

"Elwyna?"

She did not reply for awhile. She listened to the wind howl around them and resisted the urge to explain herself. She regretted nothing—or at least she needed desperately to believe she didn't, and therefore she refused to apologize. She would let him speak first, or never speak at all.

He cleared his throat. He glanced around the road to make sure no one else was around. When at last he broke the silence, even his sweet minstrel voice came out hoarse. "What brings you back to Shrewsbury?"

"I need to speak with Godric."

She thought she would shock him into compliance with her courage and audacity. Instead he gawked and cried, "And why on earth would you do that?"

She bowed her head, defeated. Her voice came out so weak it was a wonder he understood her. "I need his help."

"Elwyna ... I don't think that's a good idea."

"And how would you know?" She glared at him maliciously. "Why are you in Shrewsbury, anyway? Do you live with Godric now? You two always seemed very close."

She wasn't even sure what she was implying, exactly. But Sigurd's face turned as red as beets, and the laughter from his throat sounded nervous. "Oh, well, I just live nearby. You know Godric. Not really the type for 'close' companionship. The only exception is Osgifu."

By avoiding one topic, he had stumbled onto an even more awkward subject. But Elwyna knew he was wrong. She had glimpsed the way Godric opened up to Sigurd like no one else. She suspected that Godric was only closer to Osgifu than Sigurd in one particular way. But she took a deep breath and decided to let that go. "In any case, I need to see him. Good day, Sigurd."

She nudged her horse, but Sigurd reached out and grabbed the reins. She couldn't help but notice the panic glinting in his eyes, the genuine concern that drew his face into an uncharacteristic frown. Despite everything, he seemed to care about her situation—perhaps because he was partially to blame for it. "Elwyna, going to see Godric—and therefore your sister—would be like stirring up a hornet's nest. Do you really want to do that?'

"I have no other choice." She tried to pull the reins away from him, but the attempt was half-hearted.

"What would you have him do? Kill someone for you?"

Elwyna felt a strange calm settle over her. At first she didn't know why. Then she realized that Sigurd had just confirmed what she had always suspected, but never really known. He had answered the question about Godric that always dug into her mind like a splinter she couldn't remove. And now she understood. "I suppose so," she said quietly. "After all, that's what he does. Isn't it."

It wasn't a question. Sigurd bowed his head, realizing the effect of his words too late. "Listen," he rasped. "Godric's done with all that, or at least he wants to be. And even if I'm wrong ... I will not let you prove it."

The last of Elwyna's hope dissolved. The odds of getting Godric to help her were already against her. If Sigurd opposed her, too, then she stood no chance at all. Against her will, icy tears pricked her eyes. Her anger rose up, a vile taste in her mouth, and had nowhere to go but towards the man in front of her. "Then know that you are truly responsible for ruining my life."

She wrenched the reins again, this time successfully turning her horse about. Only the pain in Sigurd's voice stopped her.

"Elwyna. Wait."

She did not look at him, only waited.

"I live not far from here. At least let me give you something to eat."

She wanted to refuse him, for the sake of her own pride, and due to the fact noon had passed and every remaining hour of the day was precious. But her stomach clenched, its emptiness stabbing her, and she nodded weakly in response.

As Sigurd led her to his home, she told him in full of her plight. The story shamed her, revealing the depths of her poverty and loneliness. But Sigurd listened raptly, and she found herself grateful for a sympathetic ear, despite her past with its owner. He made sounds of disgust as he listened to the way the Normans treated her. When she confessed her fears that Drogo would rape her, the blood drained from Sigurd's face.

He had a small but cozy cabin on the edge of a pasture. He lit the fire and gave her warm stew. He even told her he would save her a trip to town and trade with her. He gave her wine and bread in exchange for some meat, then told her to keep the Normans' coin for herself. Then he opened the floorboards and rummaged through his belongings without explaining why. She watched curiously while sipping her stew.

At last he emerged with a tiny pouch, and as he held it up to the firelight, his hands trembled.

"What's that?" she asked at last.

"A possible solution." He looked at her gravely. "Depending on how desperate you are."

"Desperate enough."

He nodded and set down the pouch on the floor beside her. "Pour this into the Norman's wine. And he'll never bother you again."

Elwyna gulped. She had hoped Godric might kill for her. Why not gather her courage and do the deed herself? Nonetheless, the thought sent chills down her back. "One of them, Sir Fulbert ... he's not such a bad man."

Sigurd waved his fingers frantically, as if to sever his ties to the issue. "Use it as you will. It's my gift to you." He already seemed eager to forget about it.

Elwyna did not have that luxury. "If I only kill one of them ... how obvious will it be that he died of poison?"

"Obvious enough," said Sigurd grimly. "If you use all of that, he will die quickly. Less, and he will be sick for a few hours—vomiting and such—before he succumbs. He may have trouble breathing or grow very confused before the end." He wiped his brow, as if to push away a disturbing memory. "Either way, I imagine you will look very suspicious. I leave the choice to you."

She nodded, then picked up the pouch. The steadiness of her fingers surprised her. "Thank you, Sigurd."

*

She returned to the cabin just as the sun touched the horizon. Before she dismounted, her hand brushed the tiny pouch against her dress. Its presence lent her courage. She didn't have a plan yet. But at least she had an option.

The men remained strangely quiet as she walked inside and handed out food. Dumbun looked at her with a mixture of relief and fear. She hoped he detected the faint reassurance in her eyes as she gave him a small piece of bread. Drogo and Sir Fulbert talked for a while in Norman and paid her little heed at first—or at least made it seem that way. But Elwyna caught Drogo's gaze pinning her momentarily. Now, she not only saw lust in his eyes; she saw anger. She wondered which was worse.

"Pour me some wine, then," said Sir Fulbert.

Elwyna's heart raced as she opened the generous cask from Sigurd and poured the first cup.

" _Moi aussi_ ," said Drogo, and held up a horn from his belt.

Her trembling hands gave Fulbert his cup and took Drogo's horn. She didn't want to kill both of them. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to kill anyone. Perhaps she should not use the poison at all. What if she made a mistake? Pouring all the powder into Drogo's horn would be difficult to hide. Pouring it into the entire cask would be very risky, and she doubted it would successfully kill anyone. What if Dumbun tried to drink some? After all, he certainly deserved wine more than these Normans did.

She poured Drogo's wine and handed it back to him. As she did, he closed his fingers around hers, smirking. She yanked her hand away.

Dumbun came over to pour his own cup. As he did, he reached up to grip her shoulder. Elwyna found herself leaning against him and clutching his clothes. She couldn't help herself. Suddenly, she imagined running off with him again, leaving this cabin, starting all over like they had before. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe they stood a good chance.

Then Fulbert cleared his throat and said, "Dumbun. There's something else I want you to show me. Let's go outside."

Elwyna's fingers dug more deeply into Dumbun's shirt, even as she turned to snap at Fulbert. "That's ridiculous! It's almost nightfall!"

The explosion of pain across her cheek seemed to come from nowhere at first. Her skull rattled and her teeth knocked together. Then she saw the blur of Fulbert's hand coming to a stop, remembered the sound of flesh smacking against flesh, and realized he had struck her—hard.

For a moment, Dumbun's grip on her was the only reason Elwyna remained standing. Then Dumbun lunged forward, releasing her to stagger in place. Her vision spun, but she glimpsed both of Dumbun's hands reaching for Fulbert. She heard the sound of a sword scraping out of its scabbard. She saw the flash of Drogo's blade against the firelight. Then Dumbun lurched to a halt.

Fulbert leaned down towards Elwyna, jamming his finger close to her face. "You don't tell me what to do," hissed the knight, "You don't decide anything at all. The sooner you both realize that, the better we can all get along."

He grabbed Dumbun fiercely, then shoved him towards the door. "Outside!" The Norman still had Dumbun's axe against his belt. And even if they were equally equipped, Elwyna doubted Dumbun could do anything against the knight, who was clearly a seasoned warrior. She didn't want him to try. So she caught her lover's gaze one more time and said, desperately, "Don't worry. I'll be fine."

Sir Fulbert grumbled to himself in Norman, then pushed Dumbun over the threshold. Together they went outside, and Fulbert shut the door behind them.

For a time Elwyna stood unmoving, cradling her throbbing cheek, and she nearly succumbed to her fate. She wondered if Fulbert even had a right to be angry. After all, he could have punished her for theft or something like it. These Normans could have killed her and Dumbun outright in order to take this little cabin and save themselves the trouble of dealing with two impoverished Saxons.

Ironically, it was one small mercy given to her by Drogo that rekindled her hopes of escape. The Norman poured her a cup of wine and handed it over.

As she took it, she dared meeting the man's eyes. She detected a hint of loneliness beneath the cloud of greed.

"Thank you," she said.

He replied in Norman, and though she couldn't understand him, his tone suggested a half-hearted attempt to reassure her. The way his eyes crawled down her body, however, failed to comfort her.

Drogo finished his wine and set down his horn. He walked over to the fire, added a log, and stoked the embers. Flames flared over the wood and sent a surge of heat through the cabin. Drogo unfastened the heavy belt from his tunic and set it on the floor.

Elwyna acted quickly. She picked up his his horn and upturned the pouch of powder. Then she poured the wine on top of it. She watched the dust swirl into the burgundy liquid and vanish.

When he turned back around, Elwyna stood nearby, handing him his horn of wine while continuing to sip from her cup. He grinned and drank.

Elwyna turned away to hide the shock on her face. She had done it. She had poisoned him. Now she need only wait.

She walked slowly so as not to rouse his concern. She set down her cup of wine. Then, still turned away from him, she took off the belt from her dress. She reached up and untied her hair, letting the red waves fall down her neck.

She heard Drogo gulping his wine hastily. She thanked God for the fact this man drank from a horn, which needed to be emptied before he set it down. Indeed, she heard it give a hollow echo as it _clunked_ onto the floor. Her heart leapt into her throat. Then Drogo approached her from behind and wrapped his arms around her.

She was too overwhelmed to move, much less put up a fight, as he kissed her neck and pulled at her dress. She seemed to watch herself from afar as she waited for it all to be over. She knew that he touched her; that if she thought about it too much, she would panic. So she pretended as if it happened to someone else, barely listening through the roar in her ears, until he gagged and fell backward.

Even then, she remained still for a time. She returned to her body slowly. She heard him wheezing and thrashing. Finally, she turned to look.

As Sigurd had promised, such a large dose of the poison killed Drogo quickly. He struggled to draw one more breath and failed. Her stomach curdled as she watched one last surge of life flare through his eyes—she saw rage, she saw longing, she saw regret—before the light faded out them.

And then he died.

After that, Elwyna felt inexplicably calm. The deed was done. The man was dead. Now she simply had to deal with it.

She wiped the spittle from his mouth. She readjusted his clothes. Then she sat down in a corner and considered what to do next. She could say she had no idea what happened to him. Perhaps he had a horrible illness; perhaps Fulbert should run away or he would get sick, too. She would think of something.

She had run away from the law once and she could do it again. She did not need society. She did not need the mercy of two Norman bullies. She did not even need a husband or children. She would live life freely and without consequences, for surely she and Dumbun deserved to, after all they had endured.

Satisfied with the possibilities, Elwyna stood up. She pulled up her dress enough to cover herself, but remained disheveled for the sake of appearances. Then she walked to the door.

**

4

### Last Tales of Mercia 4:

### RALPH THE KNIGHT

(back to Table of Contents)

*

" _And [the king's council] declared Archbishop Robert utterly an outlaw, and all the Frenchmen, because they had made most of the difference between Godwin, the earl, and the king_."

—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, Entry For Year 1052

SHROPSHIRE

1052 A.D.

"To Sir Ralph, the newest knight of Engla-lond!"

A few cheers resounded through the smoky Saxon tavern. Most of the occupants remained quiet, choosing to send sullen looks in Ralph's direction rather than celebrate. Anglo-Saxons outnumbered Normans here, and Anglo-Saxons did not enjoy watching another Norman gain power. Ralph knew this and even tried to respect the fact. That did not stop him from feeling as if all the world should share in his glory.

He had always hoped to become a knight one day, but today's promotion had caught him by surprise. Ralph had accompanied Lord Richard FitzScrob and a few other men to confront an Anglo-Saxon family for disobedience. Their son owed Richard labor on the castle, but he had repeatedly fled from his duties—presumably with his parents' help. Richard FitzScrob and his men had been prepared to punish the family severely. But Ralph surprised everyone by talking with the young fellow, whom he knew from a previous occasion, and convincing him to submit peacefully to Richard's will. After that, the family had also complied.

Truly enough, Ralph befriended Anglo-Saxons whenever he had the chance, because he saw no reason not to. He liked Engla-lond. He liked meeting men who had once been Vikings; after all, the Normans' own ancestors were Vikings. He liked the air of independence and freedom that so many English inhabitants exuded, perhaps due to so many years of warfare. The men and women here seemed to serve their lords because they chose freely to do so—or at least they liked to pretend as much. And Ralph liked that about them. He was already starting to grow his hair out like most Saxons and was even considering a beard. He could speak fluid English and only spoke Norman if the occasion demanded.

Lord Richard had been so pleased by Ralph's negotiations that on the way home, he announced his intention to knight Ralph the next time they visited King Edward—which would be in a fortnight.

"I am happy for you, Ralph." This from Sir Fulbert, who sat across from Ralph and sipped slowly at some wine. The older man's eyes wandered suspiciously to the nearby Saxons, as if expecting one of them to jump out and kill him at any moment. Ralph could not blame him. Barely a week ago, Sir Fulbert's squire, Drogo, had died mysteriously on a scouting trip through the woods. Fulbert claimed that a wild red-headed wench had killed the squire, perhaps by some means of sorcery. The accused woman, Elwyna, had been shackled and put to work at Richard's castle while awaiting trial. Ralph had caught glimpses of her a couple times and didn't doubt her guilt. "But don't grow too accustomed to leniency," said Fulbert. "It can get you in trouble with these people."

Ralph shrugged. "I don't think I'm lenient," he said. "I've just made a lot more friends than the rest of you bastards."

Some of the men laughed; even Fulbert gave a little smile. The only one who made no response at all was Geoffrey, a knight who had said nothing all evening. Ralph wondered why the man had come out to celebrate in the first place. He rarely spoke, barely drank, and in most ways was Ralph's opposite. If Lord Richard thought of Ralph as a friend to the Saxons, he probably saw Geoffrey as their most feared enemy. Geoffrey got nearly complete obedience from all of his tenants, purportedly because he terrified them.

Geoffrey's silence tended to make Ralph uneasy. He wondered how often he would work with this man from now on. The land Ralph would acquire as part of his knighthood lay just next to Geoffrey's. Ralph decided he should make some attempt to befriend Geoffrey, rather than risk becoming his enemy. "Maybe Geoffrey and I should team up," he suggested jovially. "Between my charms and Geoffrey's brutality, we'd be unstoppable."

Geoffrey looked up from his ale—mostly untouched—and stared back at Ralph with flat golden eyes. Then he gave Ralph a very fake smile.

A few of the men laughed uncertainly.

"I think Richard picked you because you make him look compassionate." A grumpy squire, no doubt jealous of Ralph's promotion, managed to break the growing tension. "I hear King Edward will send some Normans home during the next council, never to return. Too many of the king's Saxon subjects have complained about our presence here."

"Surely they're not complaining about Lord FitzScrob." Ralph said this to assure himself as much as anyone. He also downed a few more gulps of ale to help wash away his fears. He wanted to stay here in Engla-lond, especially now that he would get his own horse and tenants.

"Nevertheless, I wouldn't be too sure about your knighthood if I were you," mumbled the jealous squire. "King Edward might not let us stay here, much less put another Norman in a position of power."

Ralph stared into his horn of ale and tried to think of a new topic of discussion.

Sir Fulbert came to his rescue. "Have you looked for a wife yet? A proper Saxon woman might secure your place here."

"That's true." This subject brought a smile back to Ralph's face. He looked beyond the circle of Normans and surveyed his nearest options. "Might as well get started, eh?"

The men cheered him on appreciatively as he rose to leave the table.

He breathed a sigh of relief once away from his Norman companions. He liked them well enough, but more and more often he preferred English company to theirs. And he certainly didn't mind the prospect of beginning the search for a woman—though he had no intention of choosing a wife yet.

A few seated women looked lonely enough for him to attempt entertaining, but a serving wench grabbed his attention, for she seemed in need of a hero. A large man had hold of the woman's hand and did not appear willing to release it. The woman tugged a few times; she carried a pitcher of wine with her other hand and this limited her movement. But the large Saxon kept hold of her, leering and talking while she tried not to listen.

"Excuse me," said Ralph. "I think the lady wants you to let go of her."

Both the woman and the man blinked at him in surprise. Ralph hoped his Norman accent did not make him too difficult to understand. He gave his warmest smile to the woman, though she looked a little older and less attractive this close than she had from afar. A quick study of her curvy body assured him that she would still be worth the effort.

"And who are you to say?" The Saxon man's sneer appeared as a streak of brown teeth amidst his thick beard.

"Merely a concerned citizen."

"No you're not. You're a fucking Norman." The Saxon worked up a mouthful of spit, then flung it upon the floor.

Ralph stared in disgust at the blob for a moment, struggling to contain his temper. Then he altered his stance slightly so that his hand draped almost casually over the pommel of his sword, making the weapon the most prominent trait of his figure. "I am a knight in the service of Lord Richard FitzScrob."

"Well then, _knight_." The Saxon's grip on the woman tightened. "Maida and I know each other."

Ralph looked to the woman, Maida, for confirmation. Her big brown eyes sparked with anger as she scowled at the Saxon. "I may know Seaver," she hissed, "but that doesn't mean I like him."

Maida looked even prettier when she was angry. Ralph grinned and turned back to Seaver. "Looks like you should let go of her now."

"You can't tell me what to do!" Then Seaver twisted in his chair and kicked Ralph in the shin.

The strike caught Ralph by such surprise that for a moment he did nothing but hiss and absorb the pain. When he realized what the Saxon scoundrel had done, he reacted without thinking. He reached out, grabbed Seaver's hair, and slammed his face into the table.

A ripple shot through the tavern as everyone turned to see what had happened. Ralph realized how awful he must appear: a Norman pulling his hand away from a seated Saxon whose nose poured blood onto the table. Ralph looked around in a panic. He wanted to say something in his defense, but that might only make him seem more guilty. Everyone stared back at him expectantly.

Then Seaver recovered, cried out with rage, and punched Ralph deep in the stomach.

Ralph struggled to stay standing as his insides turned to mush. To aid his efforts, he reached out and grabbed Seaver by the tunic. He noticed belatedly that Seaver had finally let go of Maida, but that hardly seemed to matter anymore. This conflict was no longer about a woman.

"Let's take this outside," growled Ralph, and flung Seaver towards the door.

Seaver's chair fell out from under him as he stumbled to the exit. Ralph helped him on his way with a solid kick to his side. One after the next, they both staggered outside.

The sun hung low in the sky, scattering reds and yellows into a few wisps of clouds. On any other evening Ralph might have taken a moment to appreciate the beauties of the English landscape during such a gorgeous sunset. Tonight, he had to focus instead on dodging a swing of Seaver's fist. Then he retaliated with a punch of his own. Seaver managed to grab his arm before the blow connected, at which point he lunged at Ralph with all the bulk of his body, locking the two of them in a chest-to-chest struggle.

For a little while Ralph was aware of nothing beyond Seaver's weight against his hands, the constant struggle to stay standing while Seaver kicked and jabbed him, the roaring in his ears that combined the heaving of Seaver's breath with the pounding of Ralph's own blood, and the images of hair and snarling teeth flashing in his vision. His body felt heavy with drink, but a restlessness also stirred through his muscles, left over from the potential of violence he had faced earlier today followed by a peaceful resolution. Just because he was good at negotiating didn't mean he disliked fighting, and somewhere beneath his whirlwind of thoughts, he reveled in this opportunity to bash someone's head in.

He became vaguely aware of the fact that his struggle with Seaver had led them away from the tavern, which meant that he had successfully pushed Seaver a far distance. As their feet continued to churn through the dirt, they approached a thin line of trees and bushes, where the shadows might swallow them into darkness. This would probably be for the best, he suspected. He could hear people yelling behind him, including some of his own Norman companions, commanding the Saxons to go back inside.

He wondered how large of a crowd had gathered to watch the scuffle, but before he could look, Seaver's elbow struck him soundly in the jaw. The blow made his teeth nick the side of his own tongue, filling his mouth with warm metallic blood. He spat some of it into Seaver's face, then finally managed to pull the chubby Saxon onto the ground.

Unfortunately, Seaver maneuvered himself to fall on top of Ralph as he descended. Ralph lost his breath as Seaver's weight slammed his back against the earth. And just when he had recovered enough to inhale, Seaver's ropy fingers closed around his neck.

"Fucking Norman," hissed Seaver, his hot breath lashing Richard's face. "Think you can tell me what to _do?_ "

Ralph tried to take another breath and failed. Then the panic began to set in. He felt the crushing pinch of Seaver's hands against the tender muscles of his neck at the same time he recognized the murderous intent gleaming in the Saxon's eyes. Ralph stopped thinking and responded in the only way possible.

His arm struggled to get out from under Seaver's weight, then grabbed the dirk from his belt. He turned the blade and stuck it deep into Seaver's side.

Seaver's body jolted. First he tensed up, gripping Ralph's neck almost to the breaking point. Then he gasped and went limp, rolling sideways as his hand went to the wound. Ralph's blade sliced even further as it slid out. And once the knife was free, Ralph wasted no time; he slashed the Saxon's throat.

Seaver gave a wet sigh, then stopped breathing completely.

Ralph nearly whooped aloud with joy. Just in time he stopped himself. He saw the small crowd of Saxons standing nearby. He realized the sun remained high enough to illuminate everything with a cruel shade of red. He felt the sticky blood on his hands and wiped it belatedly on Seaver's tunic. Finally, it occurred to him that if Lord Richard found out about this, Ralph's dreams of knighthood would vanish in smoke.

"No ..." He scrambled to his feet and scrubbed his hands against his tunic, over and over, as if he could cleanse the very act of murder away. "No! I didn't mean for this... !"

Dizzily, he watched his Norman companions try to contain the anger simmering amongst the Anglo-Saxons. He counted about six Saxons altogether. Some of the Normans drew their swords. The Anglo-Saxons backed away.

Then he recognized Geoffrey. The short yellow mop of hair on Geoffrey's head rippled in the breeze as he straightened his lean form and grabbed everyone's attention. The knight did not speak loudly—Ralph heard no more than the low tone of his voice—but whatever he said caused everyone to turn and walk away.

Next, Geoffrey twisted to face Ralph, his golden eyes reflecting the last rays of sunlight. Fear curdled in Ralph's belly as the knight moved towards him. Had Geoffrey promised to punish Ralph somehow? After all, that was the skill the knight excelled at. Ralph saw a strange emotion in Geoffrey's gaze; where the knight usually looked numb and bored, he suddenly seemed brought to life.

Geoffrey stopped just a few feet away from Ralph. He looked from Ralph, to the Saxon's corpse, and back again. "We have to get rid of the body," said Geoffrey at last.

Ralph swallowed, feeling as if a rock lodged in his throat. "Yes, I suppose you're right. His family will want to bury him ..."

"No." Geoffrey crouched down, studying Seaver's wounds up close. His eyes gleamed as they traversed the thick pools of blood. "They must not be able to find him."

"I don't understand." A cold wind pushed clouds over the sun, choking the remaining light. Ralph shivered. "Why shouldn't they find him?"

Even in the darkness, Ralph sensed Geoffrey's pale gaze peering up at him. "Do you still wish to become a knight? Do you want Lord Richard to remain here in Engla-lond?"

"Of course!"

"Then no one must know what happened here."

"But I can probably just pay the price of Seaver's life. What do they call it? A werigald."

"Can you spare two hundred shillings?"

"Well, not right now ..." He cursed inwardly, knowing that if he became a knight and had his own tenants, he would acquire such a sum easily. "But perhaps Lord Richard will pay it."

"And in return, your knighthood would be forfeit."

Ralph's heart sank. He feared that Geoffrey was right.

"I will help you make this night as if it never happened," Geoffrey assured him.

"But plenty of people saw me kill him!"

"Six Saxons." The coldness of Geoffrey's voice seemed to make the night air more frigid. "We will deal with them later."

"Deal with them? How?"

Geoffrey pulled a long dagger from his belt, almost a seax. The dark blade glinted against the moon. "First, the body. We'll have to take it to Eadgard's farm."

Ralph's head spun. This was all happening too fast. "Who's Eadgard? And why would we take the body to him?"

"Eadgard is one of my tenants who's good at keeping his mouth shut. We will take it to him because he owns lots of hungry pigs."

Geoffrey made it sound like he had done this all before. "Pigs... ?" Ralph's stomach lurched inside him. He felt his last meal rising upwards. As Ralph gagged, Geoffrey put a hand on his chest and pushed him up against a tree. Ralph forgot about his disgust when he saw the dagger gleaming in Geoffrey's other hand. The knight leaned close to him, whispering in Norman. "Or we could solve this another way, and make it look as if the two of you killed one another. I think this would save me a great deal of time."

Ralph hoped Geoffrey could not feel the way his heart tried to hammer out of his chest. "No, no... that's not necessary. We'll take the body to... to Eadgard's pigs."

"Very well." Geoffrey released him, then turned to collect the body.

*

Ralph did not sleep that night, even though the Saxon farmer, Eadgard, gave him a warm bed next to the hearth fire. Ralph thought he could hear the snorting of the pigs outside even though they were far away. He also remained far too aware of Geoffrey, who didn't seem to sleep, either. The knight sat staring into the low embers of the fire while sharpening his knife.

Ralph thought of the six faces he had seen from afar after killing Seaver. Geoffrey probably meant to kill them. But none of them deserved to die. He suspected the woman, Maida, had been among them. How awful that such a lovely woman might die just because Ralph had wanted to flirt. His intention had been to help her!

He tossed and turned until the sun rose, speculating on every conceivable way to get himself out of this mess. If not for Geoffrey, he might have gone straight to Lord Richard and confessed. At the very least he would have left the body for Seaver's family to bury. Now there would be no end to the lies and deceptions.

Geoffrey seemed in a particularly good mood that morning, for Geoffrey. He walked around outside, whistling a little tune, then returned with some pottage for Ralph.

As Ralph consumed the gooey mixture, he could not stop thinking about Eadgard's pigs.

Once Eadgard left to do his chores, Geoffrey fixed Ralph with his unrelenting stare. "So tell me," he said. "Did you recognize any of the witness's faces?"

Ralph closed his eyes and pretended to think about it. In truth, he tried desperately to forget. "Um ... no, I'm afraid not. I mean, a face or two looked vaguely familiar, but I can't say where I had seen them before. Probably just in that tavern."

Geoffrey said nothing for a while; he just kept staring at Ralph, as if waiting for something. Ralph looked away and pretended like he didn't notice. He fidgeted with his fingers and took another gulp of the bitter pottage. Meanwhile his stomach kept churning, and churning, the longer Geoffrey stared at him.

"I said I don't know!" cried Ralph at last.

"That's unfortunate." Geoffrey took out his knife and began picking his nails with it. "You are lucky, then, that I recognized two of them. One of them lives not far from here. His name is Cerdic. He is a handsome boy—very friendly. I suspect he will know the name of the other bystanders."

"Right. Good," lied Ralph. He didn't know why on earth Cerdic would want to tell them anything. But he also didn't care to hear Geoffrey's solution.

"We should go," said Geoffrey, standing.

"In a moment. I'm not fin—"

Geoffrey grabbed Ralph's bowl and flung it into the fire. "We have no time to waste, you _connard_."

Ralph's cheeks burned with fury, but he stood and followed Geoffrey outside.

They lashed their horses in the direction of Cerdic's home, wasting no time, indeed. When Ralph glimpsed Geoffrey's face and realized that the knight was not only impatient, but excited, anger flared through his veins. It occurred to him that Geoffrey actually enjoyed the prospect of killing innocent people. He trembled with rage even as his lingering fear urged him to show caution.

All too quickly, they arrived at Cerdic's home. He had no house of his own, but lived on the small estate of a Saxon thegn comprised of several thatched huts. Ralph wondered which of Richard's knights lorded over it. Then he took a second look at his surroundings and nearly cried out with despair. This would be one of his own hides of lands, he realized, once his knighthood was official.

The Saxons watched fearfully as Ralph and Geoffrey approached. When the peasants got a closer look at the riders' hair, tunics, and swords, most retreated indoors.

"Hello!" yelled Ralph, trying to sound friendly. "We are just here to talk!"

Geoffrey dismounted, even as his horse kept trotting, and stormed onwards.

"Wait!" Ralph scrambled after him, struggling to free his boot from the horse's stirrup. Once on the ground he hurried to Geoffrey's side, who stood in the middle of the estate, turning his head slowly from one hut to the next like a dog sniffing the wind. The last remaining people looked at Ralph and fled.

A deep frown had fallen over Geoffrey's face. "Which one of us are they running from?"

"You, I suspect, considering your reputation!"

Geoffrey scowled, his hand brushing the pommel of his sword. Ralph thought the knight might take his statement as a compliment. In any case, Geoffrey had other matters on his mind. "I think I saw another man who was there last night—Osgar. This way."

Ralph reluctantly followed Geoffrey into one of the huts. His eyes needed a moment to adjust to the darkness and make out the group of huddling figures inside. He didn't need to wait, however, because the young man in question stood and tried to run outside as soon as Ralph entered.

"That's Osgar," said Geoffrey.

Ralph tried to catch the young man at the threshold. But when Ralph took hold of him, the man's panic increased. He flailed and cried out and tried even harder to escape. Ralph struggled to pull him to a clear area outside, and finally kicked the fellow's legs in order to slow his struggling. Osgar fell to the earth with a cry of agony.

"Calm down!" cried Ralph, realizing that own leg still ached from the night before.

"Please don't kill me!"

"We're not going to..."

Ralph reconsidered this when he saw Geoffrey stride towards Osgar, hands flexing restlessly before him. The knight walked slowly, seeming to relish the Saxon's fear. But when the young man got to his feet, he surprised them both by running towards Geoffrey rather than away. He grabbed Geoffrey's tunic and clung to it.

"That one killed Seaver!" he shrieked. "Don't let him near me!"

Geoffrey blinked at Ralph with surprise.

"I, uh ..." Ralph cleared his throat. Osgar must not know who Geoffrey was, if he considered him the lesser of two evils. "I had a little misunderstanding with Seaver last night. It's all very unfortunate. And we just came so we could ..." He knew that Geoffrey wanted to kill the witnesses. But he had tried all night to think of an alternative. At the last minute, a possible solution came to him. Thanks to Geoffrey's disposal of the body, perhaps they could pretend as if no murder ever took place. "We came so we could ask if you'd seen Seaver. The truth is, he escaped. And I want to make sure he and I understand each other."

"But ... but ..." Osgar's grip on Geoffrey wavered. "I thought I saw you kill him."

Ralph scoffed. "I sure would have liked to, at the time! But no, I didn't. It was dark. I can see why it must have looked that way."

He felt very proud of himself. Once again, he had proven to be a good friend to the Saxons. He would save several people's lives from Geoffrey's blade and meanwhile, no one would ever discover what truly became of Seaver. His scuffle with Seaver would remain a hidden mistake. Lord Richard may never hear of this, but all the better. Ralph would know that he had proved himself worthy of his new title, and he would continue to serve Engla-lond in the manner Lord Richard intended.

Then a scream split the air, and belatedly Ralph realized that Geoffrey had stuck his knife through Osgar's forearm.

For a moment, Ralph could not help but marvel at the fact Geoffrey had moved so quickly and cleanly. Geoffrey gripped the breast of Osgar's tunic with one hand while he held the knife in place with the other. Geoffrey leaned close to Osgar and spoke in a low voice, so that he had to stop screaming in order to listen. "I didn't cut a vein or tear deeply into muscle," hissed Geoffrey. "But if you struggle, I will."

"For God's sake," said Ralph once he recovered from shock. A few people looked out of their cabins to see what was happening. Ralph tried to stand in such a way that he blocked the sight of metal splitting Osgar's flesh. But he could not hide the flow of blood dripping onto the ground below, nor the whimpers of pain from Osgar's throat.

"Now answer quickly," bade Geoffrey. "Where is your friend Cerdic?"

"Cerdic? But—?" A slight twitch of Geoffrey's hand convinced Osgar not to tarry. Tears sprang from the captive's eyes and rolled down his cheeks. "On his way to Lord Richard FitzScrob! He left at dawn!"

"For what purpose?"

"To tell him what happened last night. We thought that man killed Seaver!" Osgar looked pointedly at Ralph. "But I guess we were wrong. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!"

Geoffrey gritted his teeth. He looked angry for a reason Ralph could not explain. Did he actually wish the Saxon had not surrendered so quickly?

"Let him go, Geoffrey." The conviction had drained from Ralph's voice. He just wanted this to be over. If Cerdic had left at dawn to go to Lord Richard's castle, then they were already too late. Even on foot, Cerdic would beat them there.

Geoffrey's amber eyes flashed with anger. But he must have recognized the wisdom of Ralph's advice, for with a quick jerk of his wrist, he freed the knife from Osgar's arm.

The Saxon fell to the ground, cradling his wrist and moaning. Geoffrey stared down at him.

"We should go." Ralph nearly nudged Geoffrey onward, then thought better of it and waited.

Geoffrey crouched down and lifted his knife to Osgar's face. Ralph flinched, fearing some further injury, but Geoffrey just wiped the wet blade across Osgar's cheek, leaving a trail of blood. "You'll see me again, _mon juet_ ," he said. Then he stood.

Once they were on their horses and on their way to Richard's castle, Ralph could not help himself. He had to say something. "Why did you stab him? My way was working. And it could work with everyone else, if you don't just _stab_ them!"

Geoffrey's eyes stared flatly ahead. "He grabbed my tunic," said the knight.

"He actually thought you might protect him!" Ralph still marveled at the memory.

"Exactly," said Geoffrey. Then he lashed his horse harder.

*

Returning to Richard's estate in the light of noon, Ralph could hardly believe how much it had begun to resemble a true Norman castle. The gradual hill on which it was built offered a wide view of the pastures of Shropshire and Herefordshire. Even the grounds of the castle continued up a slight incline, emphasizing the supremacy of the tower that would eventually loom from the top western corner.

Most impressive from the outside were the deep ditches around the palisade walls. Right now the deepest sections already lay as low as ten feet, and eventually the slaves might dig even deeper. Sharp, rocky earth banked steeply up to the palisades, quite difficult for any intruder to climb. The ditch could only be crossed by a swing-bridge, which in times of war could be turned sideways to prevent passage. And even if one crossed the swing-bridge, he next must pass through the large rectangular gatehouse. Lord Richard had already instructed for this gatehouse to be made of stone, for it provided crucial protection to the overall castle. At this very moment, slaves were mixing hard white mortar to set the stones of its walls.

Meanwhile, the shoveled earth had been moved within the walls to form the heart and spine of the whole castle structure: the motte. The large pile of dirt and shale would soon form a hill of its own, and on top of that Richard would build a keep and tower in which he would live.

On the inner side of the ditches, slaves had already erected spiked wooden palisades, and in some areas they had begun to stack stones. Right now, Richard still searched for a quarry from which to obtain additional rocks. The wall would be difficult enough to scale given the ditch and palisades alone, but once Richard replaced it all with stone, it would be nearly impenetrable. Normans barely knew how to attack each other's castles after years and years of warfare. The Anglo-Saxons would be entirely clueless.

Crossing through the gate and past the walls, the sight of sturdy cabins around the looming dirt and construction came as a sight to sore eyes. Ralph saw the slaves hard at work chopping wood or carrying stones. A few Normans took advantage of the open bailey to practice swords or train horses. Ralph hoped some of the Anglo-Saxons would have the same luxury soon enough. He thought they would willingly bend their backs for this project if they understood how grand it would be to see a castle on the English landscape. But understanding and appreciation would have to come with time.

Ralph and Geoffrey gave their horses to the stable-hand, then made their way deeper into the bailey. Eventually, Richard would reside in the stone keep on top of the motte. For now, he lived in the largest cabin on the bailey. Ralph's heart sank as he neared the entrance. He wondered if his little brawl with Seaver had the potential to blow this all away. Of Richard's followers, Ralph had the most sympathy for the Anglo-Saxons. But now he had murdered one and his knighting would be canceled. Men like Geoffrey or the murdered Drogo would rise to King Edward's attention. And then he would send them all back to Normandy.

His legs like felt blocks of wood as he entered Richard's hall.

They were too late. Cerdic was already there, kneeling on the floor before Richard, speaking in woeful tones of the injustice a Norman had wrought upon Seaver. Cerdic didn't seem to know Ralph's name. But when Ralph and Geoffrey entered, Cerdic readily lifted a finger and shouted, "There he is!"

Richard looked up from the table and blinked at the two newcomers. To Ralph's surprise, the lord actually looked relieved. "Oh! Geoffrey."

Geoffrey frowned. He looked from Cerdic, to Ralph, then back to Lord Richard. Cerdic's finger pointed at Ralph, but that was less obvious to Richard, who sat on the other side of Cerdic. "Suzerain," the knight replied uncertainly.

Now Cerdic grew confused. "No, not you. The other one."

"Ralph?" Lord Richard blinked with puzzlement.

Ralph shifted on his feet. "Well, actually ..." He bowed his head, reluctant to speak the words he knew he must. As his gaze dropped, he saw Osgar's blood on Geoffrey's tunic. He wondered if anyone else noticed.

"There must be some mistake," said Lord Richard at last. "Geoffrey? Were you there last night?"

"Yes, Suzerain."

"Then you must have the two of them mixed up," said Lord Richard to the Saxon. "Ralph would never do something like that."

"I know what I saw!" cried Cerdic. "That one—Ralph—fought with Seaver over a woman! They went outside, and then—"

"I finished Seaver off." Geoffrey's voice sliced through all the noise in the room and left a temporary silence. The knight stepped forward and glowered at Cerdic as if at a bug he wished to squash. "I killed Seaver." Next his dull gaze fixed on Richard. " _Je suis désolé_ , Suzerain. I couldn't let the Saxon defeat Ralph."

Ralph's cheeks burned, recognizing the insult even as he thanked the heavens for Geoffrey's help. Placing the blame on Geoffrey made complete sense; no one would think twice about the fact Geoffrey had killed someone. But why would Geoffrey do this for Ralph?

Lord Richard sighed and nodded wearily. "There we have it. Geoffrey, are you willing to pay Seaver's life price? It will be two hundred shillings."

Geoffrey's fists clenched. Then he glared at Ralph.

Ralph gulped. "I will pay half," said Ralph hoarsely. "After all, I started the fight." He pretended not to notice that Geoffrey continued to glare at him, the strength of his gaze like a fire blazing against Ralph's side.

"That settles it, Cerdic," said Lord Richard. "I will ensure the king's peace from here. You're dismissed."

Reluctantly, Cerdic stood and made to go. But his eyes lingered on Ralph all the while, fear swimming in his irises.

" _Imbécile_ ," hissed Geoffrey as the Saxon departed.

Once the three Normans were alone, Lord Richard scowled and pushed himself to his feet. Ralph winced on his lord's behalf, knowing that Richard's crooked feet must be causing him pain, and yet the lord chose to stand nonetheless. The gesture had its proper effect, for Richard's large-boned frame cut an imposing figure as he loomed over the room. "Ralph," said Lord Richard. "I'm disappointed in you."

Ralph's legs nearly buckled underneath him. He had hardly slept, barely ate, and been in a constant state of stress since last night. For the wonderful moment when Richard said "That settles it," Ralph had felt as if all of his problems must be solved. Relief had poured over him, only to be snatched away once more by a few simple words. _I'm disappointed in you_.

"Please, my lord, forgive me," rasped Ralph. "The man did kick me in front of an entire tavern. But perhaps I overreacted."

"I can't say I blame you," sighed Richard, "but right now we must be very careful. When I present you to King Edward, I want you to be a shining example of the peace-abiding knights Engla-lond desires right now."

"I know. I know. I am sorry."

"Thank God Geoffrey took care of this for you," Lord Richard continued. "But we need to make it very clear to everyone who saw you that night that Seaver's blood is on his hands and not yours. We will present this at the next hundred-court and set the story straight. Understood?"

"Yes. Of course." Ralph glimpsed Geoffrey's smirk in the corner of his vision and his heart sank further. If Ralph had his way from the beginning, he might have convinced everyone that no murder had happened at all. It would have been difficult, surely, to explain Seaver's disappearance, but the attempt might have saved them two hundred shillings. Instead, Geoffrey chose to make Ralph look like a fool who had started a fight and not been able to finish it. And he seemed far too pleased with his decision to do so.

"And you, Geoffrey." Lord Richard's reprimanding tone wiped the smirk from Geoffrey's face. Richard leaned further over the table and lowered his voice. "I usually don't bother to ask about your activities. But usually, you are much more careful."

Geoffrey just stared blankly back at him.

"Any more blunders like this, and I suspect you'd soon be out of money. If that happens, you're on your own. Understand?"

"Certainly, Suzerain. That will not happen."

"Good. Have the money ready by the next hundred-court. Dismissed."

Ralph heard Lord Richard cursing under his breath as the two knights left the hall.

Back on the bailey, Ralph took a deep breath of exhaustion and wondered how severely he would feel the loss of one hundred shillings. Most certainly, it would delay the repairs of his new manor and acquiring a wife. But then he watched the construction happening all around him and his heart felt at ease.

He glimpsed a skinny woman with red hair lugging a large stone through the mud. He wondered if it was the wild Saxon, Elwyna, who had been accused of Drogo's murder. For her crime, she would undoubtedly hang. Perhaps Richard only delayed her trial so that it would not be widespread knowledge when he next visited King Edward. Ralph's own losses could have been much worse, he realized. And it was all thanks to Geoffrey that they weren't.

"I expect you to pay all of it." Geoffrey's calm voice cut him once more to the quick. "I will provide a hundred shillings for the next hundred-court. But when you are able, you will pay back my half of the werigald."

Ralph gulped. "Very well." He wanted to rant at the knight for putting him in this awkward position, but he resisted the urge. "I suppose I should ... thank you."

Geoffrey chuckled.

"What's so funny?" snapped Ralph.

"I did not do it for your sake," leered the knight. "Nonetheless, I do believe you owe me a favor."

Then Sir Geoffrey went on his way, and Ralph wondered if this was the worst possible punishment.

**

5

### Last Tales of Mercia 5:

### OSGIFU THE SISTER

(back to Table of Contents)

*

SHREWSBURY, SHROPSHIRE

1053 A.D.

Two warm, sturdy arms seemed to reach from Osgifu's dreams before closing gently around her. A smile lit her face as her body stirred to wakefulness. She felt the warm rays of sunshine beaming through the window shutters. The musky aroma of her husband, Godric, washed over her as he pulled her close and kissed her neck. The coarse stubble around his lips brushed her tender skin. She laughed and squirmed in his grip. "That tickles!"

In response, he kissed her again and tightened his hold on her. She struggled playfully, lashing him with her long red hair, then using her predicament as an excuse to turn around and face him.

At first glance, Godric looked almost boyish in the gentle light of the sun rise. His blue eye glittered mischievously. Short golden hairs shone upon his chin, a pleasant contrast to the dark roots of hair from his forehead. His long brown hair paled easily in the sunlight, which explained why it had almost been blond when she first saw him return from the land of Jomsvikings. The memory made her heart pound and her blood warm; she remembered how handsome he had been that day when she saw him in a Lundenburg church, still in his teen years but already a man in every conceivable way. She had been taken with him ever since, despite the fact he had cursed and grumbled in the house of God, and even voiced his intention to murder someone.

Now forty-five, Godric was still as handsome as ever, though many years of war and hardship had certainly taken their toll. Osgifu reached up and ran her hands through his hair, which had always been a blend of browns and yellows; now it also carried streaks of gray. Next her fingers brushed over his shoulder and torso, jagged with scars. Then her touch trailed back up his chest, over the jut of his throat, towards the knot of scars on one side of his face that had once been his right eye.

He reached up and grabbed her hand, stopping its ascent. "Osgifu," he said simply. Then he pushed her down and rolled on top of her.

He smothered her laughter with a kiss, quickly transforming her mirth into a new sensation entirely. The weight of his body enveloped her, pinning her, so that her every attempt to escape only increased her contact with him and made her a more willing captive. She sighed with release as he pushed his hips against hers, making his urgency evident, and trailed kisses down her neck. He propped himself with one arm, his muscles rippling down its girth, as he reached to free himself with the other.

"Mother ... ?"

Godric froze, making them all too aware of the sound of the door as it swung open, then the pitter-patter of a boy's little feet.

"EDRIC!" Godric's cry of rage seemed to shatter the rest of the world into silence. Osgifu caught only a glimpse of Edric's red curls trailing behind him as he turned and ran. Then Godric jumped up, pulling on a pair of trousers with incredible speed. "So much for building our own room!" he snarled, and lunged after his fleeing son.

Osgifu sighed, trying to replace her own disappointment with sympathy for nine-year-old Edric. She listened to the echoes of Godric's yelling through the door as she hastened to pull on her own dress. "Best go easy on him, Godric!" she called. "I'm getting too old to conceive another child!"

Any further jests died on her tongue as soon as she stepped into the main hall and saw why Edric had interrupted them in the first place.

A strange man cowered near the door of the hall. He had scraggly hair and raggedy clothes, and Osgifu doubted he had bathed or eaten a good meal in months. The stranger stared at Godric with terrified eyes, yet refused to budge from his spot.

The expression on Godric's face was far more terrifying. Shirtless and bristling with muscle, Godric looked prepared to murder the man with his bare hands. Without a doubt, the two men knew one another.

"Edric." Osgifu crouched and reached for her son, whom Godric had forgotten in the presence of the intruder. Edric gladly ran to his mother's arms. His face was red from the effort of not crying and he trembled in her grasp.

"I'm sorry!" he wailed. "But that man came in and I didn't know what to do!"

"You did the right thing, Edric." Osgifu held him close, shielding him as she walked towards her husband.

"Go back to our room, Osgifu." Godric spoke without looking at her, his voice a low growl.

"I will not," she said, even as her legs quaked beneath her. Then she fixed her gaze on the stranger. "Please, tell us who you are and what you want."

Godric snorted. "You won't get a response from him. He doesn't talk."

Only Edric's weight against Osgifu's arms gave her the strength to stay standing. Her head spun dizzily. Years ago, when Osgifu left a nunnery and agreed to marry Godric, she did so with the understanding that he would be honest and true to her in all things. For that reason he had told her everything about his first marriage with Osgifu's sister, Elwyna. He had described a slave that didn't speak yet somehow managed to start an affair with Elwyna while Godric was away from home. "So this is Dumbun," she gasped.

Godric finally turned and looked at her. His one eye gleamed dangerously even as his face pleaded with her. "Please, Osgifu. Leave us alone."

"I can't do that."

Godric had tried to adopt a peaceful way of life once he married her, but Osgifu knew certain urges would never go away. It was a miracle Dumbun had survived Godric's original discovery of the affair in the first place. Her instincts assured her that if she left the room now, she would return to find a dead body.

She turned her attention back to Dumbun. "Is this about my sister?" she asked. "Is Elwyna all right?"

Dumbun bowed his head and shook it slowly.

"Oh God." Overwhelmed, Osgifu released Edric. "Go outside now," she bade him. "Do your chores."

Edric seemed all too happy to obey, for by doing so he could flee his father's wrath as well as the strange man standing near the doorway. He scurried outside and vanished.

"You look nearly starved," said Osgifu to Dumbun. "Why don't you take a seat and I'll get you some bread."

Dumbun made a slight movement toward the table, his desperation apparent. Then Godric pounced. He grabbed Dumbun's shoulders while jabbing upwards with his knee. He struck Dumbun deep in the belly, then shoved him to the floor. A little groan escaped the slave's throat as he dropped, his body as limp as a puppet with its strings cut.

"This man does not get to eat at my table," snarled Godric. Then his hand curled into a fist. He crouched to land another blow.

"Godric, no! This is about my _sister!_ " Osgifu's hands on Godric's back were the only successful deterrent from further violence. He stopped and turned to look at her, eyes blazing with rage he could not restrain. But the longer he stared at Osgifu, the more his anger faded. "If he can't eat at the table," she said, "then he will eat outside."

Godric's tension unwound beneath her touch. His hand uncurled and fell to his side. He closed his eyes, as if to stop himself from looking at Dumbun, while he stood and turned away.

"I want him gone before noon." Godric's voice was weak with defeat. "Or I'll get rid of him myself."

*

After several attempts to communicate with Dumbun, Osgifu sympathized with Godric's urge to bludgeon the man to death. She knew that Dumbun could make sounds with his throat, so why didn't he speak? She prayed that God would give her patience as she fed Dumbun bread, gave him a warm seat near the outdoor kitchens, and tried to pull information from him.

Osgifu regretted agreeing to take Dumbun outside. The winter chill hung heavily in the air, and to make matters worse, a fog had rolled in to choke the sunshine. Frost remained glittering on the grass well into mid-morning. Even when Osgifu lit a fire, Dumbun kept trembling as if the cold had settled deep in his bones. She gave him a blanket and tried to think of some new way to learn his message.

Finally, she worked up the courage to ask him the most pertinent question. "Is Elwyna alive?"

Dumbun nodded.

A small surge of relief rewarded Osgifu, though her stomach remained knotted with fear. "Is she ill?"

He shook his head.

"So ... she is in some sort of trouble?"

Nod.

"Do the two of you need money?"

He hesitated. Without affirming or denying this, he looked pointedly to the heavens, then clasped his hands together as if praying. Then he brushed his forehead, rippling his fingers like water.

"She needs the mercy of God."

Dumbun nodded fervently.

Elwyna felt ridiculous, but at least this method of questioning had begun to yield results. "Has she done something? Has she committed a crime?"

He lowered his head sorrowfully, then nodded.

"How bad is this crime? Theft? Cheating?" No response. " _Murder?_ "

Another nod.

"Dear God." Osgifu made the sign of the cross. "Whom did she kill?"

Dumbun considered how to respond. Then he grabbed his scraggly locks of hair and pulled them upward. He scraped his other hand up the back of his skull, as if shaving the hair from it.

"A Norman!" It seemed too horrible to be true. But why else would Dumbun come all this way and dare showing his face to Godric? "Do they have her? Will they kill her?"

Nod.

Her mind raced and she paced across the frosty grass as she considered what to do. She certainly did not have the money to pay the werigald of a Norman. Nor would she risk her own neck in some desperate attempt to save her wayward sister. The two of them had not spoken in years. Usually, Osgifu tried her best not to think about Elwyna. But now, knowing that her blood-kin faced death, Osgifu knew that at the very least, she must face her sister once more.

The distant thunder of horse-hooves forced her to make a decision. She looked through the fog and discerned the the shape of two riders approaching; that would be Godric returning with his Danish housecarl, Faran. Faran liked to act and dress like a Viking, even though he had never been one. The two men had gone on an errand while waiting for Osgifu and Dumbun to conclude business.

"You must go." Osgifu stood and nudged Dumbun frantically. "Meet me at Ethelbert's church. It's on the road south of here. I will try go there as soon as I can. Now go!"

Godric surely spotted Dumbun's figure as it ran off the opposite direction, but he graciously pretended not to. Perhaps a ride through his lands had helped to cool his temper. Godric put his horse in the stables and then made his way towards her. Anxiety wrung Osgifu's nerves like a dish rag. How much should she tell Godric, if anything? She would have to explain her trip somewhat. But should she tell him about Elwyna? Godric had never been in love with Elwyna; nonetheless, they had been married for about eight years. Surely he deserved to know about her misfortune.

And if he cared about Elwyna's well-being, then what? Osgifu had resolved to visit her sister. But what lengths might Godric go to if he chose to interfere? Her stomach flipped while considering the responsibilities. Godric had murdered three kings and an archbishop in his time, all without consequence. If he made up his mind to help Elwyna, who knew what he might do?

He seemed to share her anxiety as he approached. Perhaps he feared what she might say as greatly as she feared saying it. They stood at a distance for awhile, letting a silence stretch between them.

"I have to go see my sister," blurted Osgifu at last. "She's in trouble. One more visit with her might be my last."

Godric avoided his wife's gaze, perhaps to hide his own emotions. "I see." He ground his teeth. They both waited, for what she didn't know. A lone bird cawed in the distance. Godric stepped closer, though he still would not look at her. Finally he reached out and gripped her shoulder. "Do you want my help?"

"No."

He gave one curt nod. She thanked him silently for accepting her decision without debate. "When will you leave?"

"Now, I suppose. Though I suspect I won't be back until tomorrow."

"Where will you go?"

She hesitated.

A new edge sharpened his voice. "Will you be in danger?"

"No," she said quickly, hoping that God forgave her if such a statement was a lie. Walking amongst Normans who held her sister captive for murder would certainly not be "safe." But if Godric knew that, he would find some way of watching her from afar.

She remembered that Richard's son, Osbern, had once met Edric at a shire's court. Both of them young boys at the time, they had played together and enjoyed each other's company. Perhaps she could change the tone of the situation entirely. "In fact, I'd like to bring Edric with me."

" _Edric?_ "

"Yes." She took a deep breath, determining not to deceive Godric any more than necessary. "I will be going to the castle of Lord Richard FitzScrob."

"The _Norman!_ "

Osgifu nodded calmly. "You have always said he is our ally, as he is King Edward's. And you may recall that his son Osbern met Edric at the shire court not so long ago. They got along well together."

"They battered each other with sticks," Godric growled. Then he sighed with defeat. "But they did seem to enjoy it."

Osgifu reached up and brushed Godric's cheek with her fingers. "Trust me, Godric. I can handle this situation."

She felt Godric's jaw clenching under her touch. "I don't want Edric to meet Elwyna."

"If he does, he'll know only that she's my sister." She realized her hands were trembling and she worried that Godric would notice. She fell forward into the warmth of her husband's arms. "I love you," she whispered.

His lips brushed her hair. "I love you, too." His hands gripped her firmly.

*

Edric was very excited to travel to Richard's castle and see young Lord Osbern again. However, he sensed the graveness of his task when Osgifu explained Elwyna's predicament, and he proved a quiet riding companion.

At Ethelbert's church, Osgifu spoke once more to Dumbun and verified Elwyna's location. By then the courage she had shown to Godric was fading, and her dread nearly overwhelmed her. She felt as if she would walk straight into the enemy's nest by visiting Richard's castle. But she nodded with resolve and asked the priest to pray for Elwyna. Dumbun would stay at the church, for Osgifu suspected his presence would only bring trouble. Osgifu and Edric would make haste to Richard's castle, if only so Osgifu could say her goodbyes. What she might do after that, she didn't know.

Before she left the church, she knelt by the altar and prayed.

She had asked little of God over the last few years. Ever since she broke her vows at the abbey and ran off to marry Godric, she felt as if she did not deserve to request God's help. Sometimes, she consoled herself with the possibility that God had always intended for her to marry Godric. At the time, she believed with complete certainty that she made a righteous decision. She felt that if God had given her this life to save anyone, that person was Godric, who needed her love more than anyone on earth. And Godric was undoubtedly a man of significance. His blade had shaped the fates of several countries, though many people would never learn his name. And if not for her, he might have shaped them further. She wanted to believe that because of her union with Godric, he had learned the power of forgiveness and put away his axe forever.

She didn't always convince herself of her own righteousness, however. So while she continued to show her devotion to God whenever she got the chance, she rarely dared to impose upon Him. Now, for the sake of her sister, she did so.

"Dear Holy Father, who saved Daniel from the lion's den, please show compassion for Elwyna, who is in dire need of forgiveness. Please free her from the Normans and end the cycle of hate if you can find it in your will to do so. Amen."

Once she finished, Osgifu and Edric rode for Richard's castle.

When Osgifu first glimpsed the walls of the structure, she thought it may not be so different from any other Anglo-Saxon stronghold. Then she saw the large mound of earth rising up from the middle of the monstrosity. She watched slaves carrying rocks and glimpsed the breadth of the space within the walls, like its own little town. She wondered how all of this would look once set with stones, especially the man-made hill that seemed like the foundation of something gigantic. She feared that when all the pieces came together, the castle would truly be a sight to behold.

"So this is a castle?" Edric's blue eyes glittered with wonder.

"It certainly will be," Osgifu murmured.

She crossed a wooden bridge over a deep, gaping ditch. Her horse stirred anxiously beneath her. They approached a large gatehouse, and though unfinished, it looked quite imposing. Stones and white mortar comprised the bottom walls and led up to a second floor towering over the walls.

A Norman guard stepped forward to bar their passage.

Osgifu dismounted and motioned for Edric to do the same, hoping this would make them look less intrusive. She pet her horse's neck with calming strokes. "Good day to you. I am Osgifu, daughter of the deceased thegn Lindsey, wife of Thegn Godric Eadricson. I am here to see my sister, Elwyna."

The Norman did not seem to recognize any of the names she threw at him, but he must have determined that she was a woman of some significance. He scratched his head, then said, " _Un moment._ "

He left and came back with another Norman, perhaps of higher rank. The man had short brown hair, but Elwyna suspected it was longer than most Normans', who usually trimmed the back of the skull as close to the skin as possible. Soft brown locks fell long enough to frame this man's eyes, which looked at her with the smallest hint of friendliness.

"I am Sir Ralph," he said. "You say you're here to see Elwyna?"

"Yes."

Ralph looked down at her companion. "And this is ...?"

"My son, Edric. He's acquainted with Osbern FitzRichard."

"Oh is he?" Ralph nodded. "You'll have to leave any weapons here at the gate. Then you may follow me."

"Thank you."

After all the rumors she'd heard about Normans, Osgifu could not help but worry that she would never again see the weapons they handed over. Nonetheless, Ralph's request was reasonable, so she complied and convinced Edric to give up his little seax. They followed Ralph through the gates.

The inner grounds looked especially desolate to Osgifu. Due to all the construction, the earth was lifeless and uneven, prodding her sharply through her thin leather boots. Filthy Anglo-Saxons looked over at her from their work on the walls, their shoulders hunched from the back-breaking labor. She wondered what they had done to deserve this fate, if anything.

She wondered if it had been a mistake to bring Edric when she saw the look on his face. The state of the laborers seem to shock and even frighten him.

She did not yet see her sister, but she realized with a mixture of joy and dismay that she recognized some of the workers. Several of them had worked the lands around the Abbey of Saint Mary's which she briefly supervised as abbess. They were kind and honest folk, and it warmed her heart to see them again, though she regretted the circumstances. She had not bothered to visit many of her old friends and acquaintances after she left the abbey, for she had felt too ashamed for breaking her vows. Her guilt would only deepen if she ignored them now.

"Excuse me," she said to the knight leading her. "May I say hello to someone briefly?"

"Eh?" Ralph didn't look very pleased with the fact that she knew some of the slaves. But she gave him an innocent smile, and after a moment, he nodded.

Osgifu made her way to a section of the walls where men and women were scooping shale from the ditches and then carrying it to the motte.

"Alfwaru?"

The woman looked up with eyes that feared some sort of reprimand or bad news. She was younger than Osgifu, but her back sagged with exhaustion, and harsh conditions had made her skin splotched and weathered. Osgifu stared back at her in silence, trying to hide a reaction of disgust.

"Abbess Osgifu?"

To Osgifu's profound relief, Alfwaru said her name not with dismay, but happiness. A smile pulled at her cheeks and made her dark eyes sparkle. She stepped forward to embrace Osgifu. Then she remembered herself, and her fleeting joyfulness faded away.

"Alfwaru, it is so good to see you again," said Osgifu hastily. "Though I wonder how you ended up here, working on the Norman's castle? Do you still live in that little cabin next to the brook?" She tried to phrase the question gently, but she could not ignore the truth.

Alfwaru bowed her head grimly. "St Mary's Abbey was never the same after you left. The next abbess was incompetent. We had sick livestock and bad crops. The abbess lost money and sold some of her lands back to the king—including the cabin where my husband and I lived. We were already in a poor state, and once we had to start paying taxes ..."

The woman lost her will to say the rest. Osgifu reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Alfwaru. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Of course, Abbess. You can pray for me."

Osgifu's throat tightened. "I'm not an abbess anymore, Alfwaru."

"Maybe not. But you're still Osgifu, the woman with the purest heart I've ever known.

Osgifu could hardly explain the sensation of solace that washed suddenly over her, as if a burden lifted from her shoulders she hadn't even known was there. Today, she had finally worked up the courage to ask for something from God. Now, another person requested her voice of entreaty. God seemed to be telling her, ever so gently, that he would listen to Osgifu's prayers, and Elwyna wasn't the only person that needed them.

"I will pray for you," she said, her voice nearly a whisper at first. Then she looked up and saw that several more Anglo-Saxons were looking at her. "I'll pray for all of you!"

"God bless Lady Osgifu of Saint Mary's!" cried Alfwaru.

"God bless you, Lady."

"God bless you."

Osgifu did not know how to react to the people suddenly smiling and bowing their heads to her, or looking to her with hope. She hoped her face did not betray the fear she felt—fear that she might somehow let them down.

She became all too aware of the presence of Ralph looming nearby, his boots creaking in the dirt as he shifted his weight, the shadow of his sword casting a line across the rocks. When she turned to look at him, he had his arms crossed over his chest and a heavy frown on his face.

"Finished?" he asked.

"Yes. Thank you."

She fell in step next to Ralph and Edric once more. Edric was as quiet as Osgifu had ever seen him and she wondered what thoughts ran through his mind. His reaction to the castle seemed a combination of admiration and disgust. Ralph led them to a dining hall near the large hill of dirt, then showed them inside.

She expected to come face to face with Richard FitzScrob, lord of the castle. She knew he was a very tall man that walked on crooked feet. But instead she saw young Osbern, perhaps only twelve or thirteen years old, sitting proudly at the head of the table. Next to him sat an older gentleman wearing a long tunic and sword. On the table, candles flickered amongst fresh bowls of steaming pottage. "I am Osbern FitzRichard," said the boy, even as he wiped his greasy mouth. Osgifu struggled to interpret his accented English. "My father is busy. Can I help you with something?"

"Hello Osbern. It is nice to meet you formally. Perhaps you remember my son, Edric?"

Osbern stared curiously at the nine-year-old beside her. Edric blinked back with wide, gaping eyes.

"Oh yes." Osbern sneered. "I remember besting you in a stick-fight."

Edric's fists clenched, and at last he found his voice. "You were a lot bigger than me!" Osgifu smiled. She could still sense a boyish camaraderie between the two of them. But Osbern was still a lot bigger than Edric.

"Perhaps you should have accounted for that before challenging me to a game," retorted Osbern. Then he sat up in his chair, eager to prove himself further.

Osgifu bowed her head. "Thank you for seeing us, Osbern. As you may recall, I am Osgifu, wife of Thegn Godric Eadricson. Unfortunately, the woman accused of murder, Elwyna, is my sister. I wish to see her."

"No," said Osbern. "You may go now." He returned to eating his stew, the slightest leer of triumph on his lips.

Osgifu fought against a rising wave of despair. Perhaps bringing Edric had been a bad idea. Osbern wished to show off in front of him. Desperately, she caught the gaze of the man sitting next to Osbern. He stared back with an expression of fear and surprise.

"Thegn Godric?" asked the older man. "Son of Eadric Streona?"

"Eadric Streona?" echoed Ralph.

Osgifu nodded.

" _Qui?_ " said Osbern.

Ignoring him, the man gulped and rose unsteadily to his feet. "I am Sir Fulbert. The man your sister killed was my squire, Drogo. But I did not think the girl had any family other than her dumb brother."

Dumb brother? Osgifu wondered just how many lies her sister was telling these days. "I imagine she did not want myself or my husband involved." She sensed Fulbert's anxiety and wondered how deeply it ran. Godric had gotten away with his crimes because they remained secret until they no longer mattered. Once Edward became king, a few people suspected Earl Goodwin's involvement in the death of Harald Harefoot. The son of Canute had been found in a river with his head severed from the neck. From there, one could easily draw the connection to Godric, whom Goodwin had hired for the job. One might also connect Eadric Streona's murder of Edmund Ironside with a trap to the little boy he had brought with him to Oxford—once again, Godric. Osgifu suspected that anyone who bothered to speculate on the deaths of several recent kings might suspect Godric's involvement.

To further mystify Godric's identity, he had once claimed to be the son of Thorkell the Tall before confessing that he was the bastard son of Eadric Streona. Eadric Streona was quickly becoming the most notorious traitor in recent history. Thorkell the Tall was remembered as one of the mightiest Jomsvikings the world had ever seen. No matter which version of Godric's story one believed, the name of either father sent fear straight to people's hearts.

Osgifu wished that she could make Godric's past disappear. She certainly didn't want to go stirring it up again. She resisted the urge to push these men's fear of Godric further to her advantage. But she did not bother dispelling it. "I see no reason to involve my husband, either," she said. "Unless there has been some sort of misunderstanding here. Can you explain to me how you came to suspect Elwyna of a crime?"

"I left her alone with Drogo in that little cabin of hers around sunset," said Fulbert hoarsely. "She came out after nightfall and said that he had gone into a fit, collapsed, and died. But I've known Drogo for years. He was a healthy young man."

"What reason would Elwyna have to kill him?" asked Osgifu.

Fulbert turned pale and didn't answer.

The young lord Osbern looked around the room in puzzlement. "This is not court," said Osbern. Then, to Sir Fulbert, "Is it?"

Sir Fulbert sank into his chair and stared grimly into the table.

"In that case, when will she get a trial?" Osgifu demanded.

Ralph stepped forward. "Soon enough. Lord Richard has been very busy. But he has shown considerable mercy to Elwyna by giving her work on the castle and feeding her in the meantime."

"For that, I am grateful." She also felt increasingly suspicious. "Now may I speak to her?"

"I said no!" snapped Osbern. "What if this one can do sorcery like her sister?"

"I assure you that's not true," said Osgifu. "In fact, I used to be an abbess."

Fulbert and Ralph exchanged wary glances. Sir Fulbert said something to the young lord in Norman. Then the three of them argued briefly in their native tongue.

Osgifu waited anxiously. The discussion grew more heated, but she took comfort in the fact that Osbern seemed to be losing the fight. Finally, he declared in English, "Let them talk if you're so determined. But if anything goes wrong, it's your fault!"

He stood up, snorted loudly, and then stormed towards the door. For a young teenager, the thud of his boots—especially the one that dragged with a limp—sounded successfully intimidating. Nonetheless, Osgifu inwardly rejoiced. "Thank you, my lord." She glanced curiously at Edric. "Perhaps the two of you would like to catch up in the meantime?"

Osbern scoffed, though Osgifu detected a flare of temptation in his gaze. "I have no time for child's games."

"Then perhaps you could show Edric around the castle?" She looked to her son. "Would you like that?"

Edric's face lit up at the thought. "I would very much like that."

"Very well," said Osbern. He failed to hide the excitement in his own face. "Come with me, then."

Osgifu turned to Ralph.

"This way," said the knight with a sigh.

*

The Normans kept Elwyna tied up outside the stables when she was not hard at work on their castle. But even as Ralph led Osgifu closer, she did not immediately recognize the mud-sodden woman crouching on the dirt, her wrists worn bloody from ropes. So much dirt caked the prisoner's hair that only upon close study did Osgifu see the golden-red strands winding down her shoulders. Her dress was ripped and unraveling, baring an unseemly amount of skin to any curious bystander. The gaps in her clothing also revealed the boniness of her frame, flesh practically sunken onto bone.

Osgifu stared deeply into the down-turned face, the little bumped nose, and the long red lashes. Only then did her mind connect this dirty shell of a woman to the spirited girl who had once been her sister. Without warning, sobs rose up to choke her throat. Tears pricked her eyes and she fell to her knees beside her sister.

"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."

"Him _self?_ "

"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. Some 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

(back to Table of Contents)

*

" _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 commotion 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.

Hereward could now discern a thrown rock sinking to the bottom of the riverbed; someone had thrown it at him, thus causing the splash. Suspecting one of his comrades of foul play, Hereward turned to identify an unexpected visitor, Martin, as the culprit. The tall, lanky fellow already had another rock poised for throwing.

Hereward stood and roared with anger. "Martin!"

Martin "Lightfoot," a man whose long legs were both fast and silent, must have sneaked past the wine-sick boys easily. He shouldn't be here. Eager to atone for their negligence, a few of the fellows pounced on Martin, grabbing his fancy tunic of red linen and tugging at his dagger-laden belt.

Martin probably could have run away from the boys if he wished. Instead he endured their rough handling, meeting Hereward's scowl with a shameless smile. The expression came out looking like an uncomfortable distortion of his long, gangly features.

"Go home, Martin," snarled Hereward. "I've no need of my parent's spy."

"And I've no need of a pompous bully," said the fleet-footed gentleman. "Nonetheless, Lord Leofric wanted me to come here and give you a warning. He heard about your fight last night with poor Eadwig. Apparently, you bashed the man's face so brutally both his eyes are swollen shut and he hasn't climbed out of his bed this morning."

"It was a fair fight," said Hereward, though he could hardly remember it. In truth, he had probably been the one at a disadvantage, for he was so besotted with drink at the time. A few of his comrades echoed their agreement.

"In any case, if you piss on the pride of a single more Bourne-man, your father will ensure you can never do it again. For now, Lord Leofric commands that you and all of your companions go home, not to reconvene until further notice."

"Not to reconvene, eh?" Hereward swaggered closer, balling up one fist and considering where to place it on Martin's body. Unfortunately, his knuckles still hurt from last night.

"Peace, Master Hereward." Martin maintained his smug smile. "I am only the messenger. And if you wish to give your father a message in return, I will gladly carry it for you."

Hereward considered this, his fingers unwinding. He glanced around at his comrades. They all looked uneasy, for a threat from Lord Leofric—normally a cool-tempered man—was no laughing matter. "In that case, tell Father we have followed his wishes. We will not cause trouble here again any time soon."

"If that's true, then God bless you, my lord. However, I require convincing. I must bear the blame if my message is false. You understand." His smile spread wider, revealing some yellowed teeth.

Hereward sighed and searched for his belt, discarded by the river with his tunic. On it, he found an unfamiliar pouch—no doubt taken from Eadwig the night before. He weighed its contents, took a few coins for himself, then threw the rest to Martin. Martin deftly freed one of his arms to catch it, revealing he might have escaped at any moment if he chose.

"And how will I explain your absence?" asked Martin, dropping the purse into his tunic.

"Tell him I went hunting and I want to be alone for awhile."

"Very well. Happy hunting, then." Without further ado, Martin slipped from his captors and ran off, his long legs a blur across the grass.

Martin's message should have left Hereward furious, but in fact he felt liberated. For a long time he had suffered his mother's and father's wavering disapproval and insufficient reprimands. Now that they gave him no other choice, he would show them he could break free of their yanking leash.

Hereward looked over his gang and his heart stirred with pride. These boys would follow him anywhere and do whatever he asked of them. They were not yet housecarls in title, but someday they would be, and when that day came, Hereward would indeed surpass his father in the possession of men's loyalty.

"Listen up, boys!" His robust voice swept forcefully across the field. "I have an idea."

The boys gathered closer, hanging on to Hereward's every word despite their throbbing heads.

"Bourne may be tired of me, but I'm even more tired of Bourne," he declared. "Father doesn't understand me. The people here don't understand us. We're not just a group of young men looking for fun and games. We are warriors, born to lead our country to a better future. And right now, this town is blind to the bigger events happening outside our shire. Perhaps it's time we ventured out to show them what we're really capable of."

Some of the boys exchanged uncertain glances. To his surprise, Hereward felt a shred of anxiety winding through his own limbs. The idea of venturing beyond Lincolnshire—outside the protection of Hereward's family—was new and frightening. It was also exhilarating. But he had hoped the boys' excitement would feed his own courage.

"What are we going to do?" asked Osric, one of Hereward's closest companions. The pale, freckled lad chewed on a piece of grass while twirling a knife in his hands.

"We've all heard about the Normans causing trouble, especially in the west, closer to Wales. I hear they are actually building castles there like they do in their country."

"Not the Normans!" Chubby Dudda's voice squeaked with dismay and the awkwardness of his age, stuck somewhere between boyhood and manhood. A few other boys laughed, but the mirth was short-lived, because they all awaited Hereward's response.

"Why not the Normans?" roared Hereward. "They're giving our countrymen trouble. So we're going to give them some trouble in return. Do you remember Queen Emma's prophecy, God rest her soul? She said that if the Normans built their castles in Engla-lond, our country's lands would drown in blood. We can't sit idly by and let that happen!"

He expected cheers and whole-hearted applause. Instead, a single, soft voice rang loudly through the silence.

"Don't do it, brother."

Hereward turned with a sinking heart to his younger sibling rising from the ground. Few people would ever guess the two boys were brothers; Wilburh had thick, ashy hair, bright blue eyes, and a skinny frame. More importantly, Wilburh had a gentle temperament like their father and a respect for authority. Most people found it strange—including Hereward—that the nicer boy chose to follow Hereward's gang. Sometimes, Hereward suffered guilt at the notion Wilburh might simply look up to his older brother, even if most people considered Hereward a bad influence.

Hereward shook his head of such thoughts, for guilt did not become him. He could not be blamed for his brother's choices. He could only restrict them somewhat. "You stay here, Wilburh. I didn't want you coming, anyway."

Wilburh flushed red at the back-handed insult. Nonetheless he stood his ground. "Don't you remember what happened a few years ago when some English-men quarreled with a Norman lord? King Edward wanted them punished, and when Earl Goodwin refused, he nearly started a war."

The dismay that spread through the group felt palpable. Hereward hadn't thought about that, himself. Insulting the Normans was even more dangerous than he'd expected. But that also made the prospect more enticing. "So we're to bow down to them like cowards? This is what I'm talking about, boys. We need to show them we're not afraid!"

"What are we going to _do?_ " repeated Osric, sinking his dagger into the dirt.

"I'm not sure yet," snapped Hereward testily. Why must they always need specifics? "First we're just going to take a look at one of their fucking castles. Then show them it's not so easy to build on Saxon soil."

"Please, don't!" The desperation in Wilburh's voice was almost embarrassing. "Father will be furious!"

"I said go home, Wilburh. And anyone else here who doesn't have the balls for this mission, run home now and hide under your mother's skirts."

A long silence stretched after his words. Hereward congratulated himself for wording his challenge in such a way that no one would dare refuse.

Then, to Hereward's shock, a few boys got up and moved towards Wilburh. They would not meet Hereward's gaze. A few more bowed their heads in shame, then got up to join the first group. A few became a dozen. Hereward could not believe that so many people would abandon him now, in the face of his most ambitious excursion. Soon there were only eight left still standing with Hereward.

"Cowards!" he hissed to the backs of the traitors.

"No. We're the smart ones here," said Wilburh.

Hereward scoffed. But he regretted that he had acted with such hostility, for the group now felt irreparably severed. He still wanted these boys to be a part of his gang when he returned. So he tried to lighten his tone when he said, "You're all going to be so jealous when we get home with stories that will spread the ladies' legs open."

Wilburh frowned back at him, unable to come up with a good retort, as he knew little of such things. Then he turned and started to walk away. Hereward's traitors made to follow.

"You'll regret this!" cried Hereward. "You'll see!"

But soon Wilburh and his new companions walked beyond hearing range, and Hereward stood alone with his smaller, nervous crew.

"When are we going to leave?" asked Dudda. His presence surprised Hereward, who would have expected the pudgy teenager to be among the first to flee. Perhaps Dudda feared disappointing Hereward more than facing some Normans.

"Right away," said Hereward.

"On foot?" Osric sheathed his dagger and stretched his legs in preparation.

"No. It's a long way." He thought about it a moment. "I know a stable nearby where we can borrow some horses. But we should wait until nightfall."

Dudda's face fell. "By 'borrow,' you mean...?"

Hereward grinned and smacked Dudda on the back. "It's still called borrowing if we return them later."

*

The journey across three shires to a Norman castle proved more difficult than Hereward first expected, full of toll payments, rude guards, and suspicious travelers. Hereward became unusually wary of getting into trouble, because people did not recognize his name this far from home. His father would not be around to persuade the shire reeve that Hereward did not actually disturb the king's peace. And Hereward did not have a very deep pocket with which to pay fines.

But he did not lose heart, and he prided himself in his ability to adapt to the situation. He also became quite grateful that his entire gang had not come along, after all, for that would have been far too many mouths to feed and beds to find. On the second night of their journey, they had nearly run out of money, so Hereward gambled on a few fist fights, winning every one and filling his purse once more. Osric achieved the same success with knife-throwing. The next morning, an angry wife came yelling after them, but otherwise Hereward and his boys moved on with little harm done.

At long last, Hereward reached the town of Shrewsbury. He continued to hear rumors of a Norman castle being built further southwest. Several hours later, he found himself standing in front of the muddy monstrosity.

Hereward left his horses and companions in the woods nearby, save for Osric and Dudda, who crept closer with him to get a good look. The two lads provided a balanced support of Hereward; Osric's thin, limber frame served well in a scuffle or tight place, just as Dudda's roundness and big bones could provide sturdy support. Dudda also had a sharper mind than one would first suspect, and he helped tame Hereward's ambitions by remaining practical.

"This will be tricky," said Hereward.

They all stared up at the gatehouse and the grounds around the spiked walls. A deep ditch surrounded the perimeter of the castle, so deep that an average man might not be able to climb out without help. The deep counterscarp bank led even higher up to the castle walls, most of which were wooden palisades. But in some sections, walls of stone stood partially erect.

They dared move a little closer in order to see through the gate. The grounds of the castle continued to slant upwards towards a large mound of earth sticking high over the huts and cabins. On top of it, a complex wooden framework reached towards the sky. Hereward had never seen anything like it. The large tower looked like it would eventually be about three stories high and nearly fifty feet wide. Eight buttresses wrapped round the structure, forming an octagon.

"It's like its own little burg," said Dudda with dismay.

"Except that eventually, it will all be stone." Hereward pointed to a slave going through the gatehouse with a cart of rocks. Ashy stones and white mortar already comprised the gatehouse itself, which towered high over the walls and made a formidable defense. "The Anglo-Saxons are building their own prison."

"Well it's not stone yet," sneered Osric. "I see wooden buildings inside. So let's burn them down."

The idea tempted Hereward. But he feared such an action might be too drastic and would lead to severe punishment. How could he say so without sounding like a coward? "We don't want any Saxons to get hurt."

Osric shrugged. "We could warn them beforehand. Even get them to help us."

"Don't burn anything," insisted Dudda. Hereward silently thanked himself for bringing along the voice of reason. "I think what will hurt the Normans most is losing that framework on the mound. I think it's called a keep, and if I'm right, it will eventually be the core of the castle, where the lords sleep."

"In that case," said Hereward, "I have an idea." He gestured back to the woods with excitement. "Let's return to the others."

The rest of the gang did not get as excited about the plan as Hereward, but they complied easily enough, perhaps because they were all eager to finish the task and return home.

In preparation, Hereward reluctantly exchanged his tunic for that of his scraggliest follower, then splashed some extra mud on his tattered outfit. Dubba and Osric also tried their best to look poor, ragged, and desperate. Hereward appointed a few other boys to stay with the horses. The remaining companions would stay as close to the castle gate as possible without looking suspicious. They would watch and listen for signs of trouble, especially the shrill whistle Osric could make by sticking both his fingers in his mouth.

"Very well then," said Hereward. "Let's go."

The thrill he felt as he walked towards the gate of the castle was unlike any he had ever experienced. Fist-fights and hunting could hardly compare. Today he would strike the Normans right where it hurt most and, in doing so, forge a name for himself that his father would have to take seriously.

But he could let none of his excitement show right now. He dragged his feet, hung his head, and avoided the gazes of the guards who watched him approach. They ignored him in turn, just as he had hoped. They did not notice the curiosity on his face as he crossed the bridge leading to the gatehouse. The bridge sprouted from the ditch on a thick column supporting its middle. A series of heavy ropes also attached the bridge to the gatehouse. He suspected the bridge had some method of twisting sideways and preventing entry in the event of a battle.

Only when he was nearly through the gate did an arm reach out to stop him. Hereward silently blamed Osric and Dudda for drawing the unwanted attention; their fear caused them to lag behind.

The Norman guard said something Hereward did not understand. The foreign accent distorted English words beyond comprehension. Hereward resisted the urge to scowl at the foreigner in disgust, responding instead to his tone.

"Sorry we're late," said Hereward. "We had some problems at the farm, and—"

"Just _get to work_ ," snarled the Norman, more clearly this time. As Hereward expected, the scoundrel didn't want to acknowledge a slave any longer than necessary, much less talk to him. So Hereward bowed his head, thereby hiding the hatred that flared in his eyes, and walked inside.

It was so very easy.

As he proceeded across the muddy bailey, the large, haphazard structure of walls, huts, and frames seemed to close around him like a fist. He smelled the filth of humans and animals, especially horses, which the Normans rode across the grounds while surveying the laborers. The guards didn't even bother to clean up after the horses or dogs that dropped shit around the workers. From the chopped wood, stretched leather, mixed mortar, and dirty rocks, everything around him seemed to be made of brown filth.

The misery of the work site seeped into his bones like a cold wind. The weight of the task given to these unwilling Saxons shoved down their shoulders and strained their bent backs. Even though the Saxons toiled slowly, their long-term exhaustion pervaded Hereward's senses like a contagious disease.

He jolted as a Norman walked by carrying a basket with a strange little creature inside. It was fat and furry with beady eyes and long, floppy ears.

"What's that?" he cried aloud, unable to help himself.

"A rabbit. For my wife's new warren." The Norman gave him an uncertain look. This one had longer hair and a piercing stare. He didn't seem so afraid of looking a slave in the eyes, and for a moment, Hereward's stomach churned with fear. "Are you new here?"

"S-somewhat."

"Somewhat? Well, I am Sir Ralph. Welcome to Lord Richard's castle."

Hereward nodded awkwardly, surprised by such civility.

Ralph held up the basket. He stuck his finger through the reeds and stroked the rabbit's fur. The creature trembled with terror, but Ralph only grinned. "You'll be glad we brought rabbits to Engla-lond. They make a good meal. They also fuck a lot and make even more rabbits."

Hereward nearly forgot himself and matched the Norman's smile. He liked Ralph. But not enough to forget his purpose.

Ralph must have sensed Hereward's guardedness, for his frown returned. "What are you three supposed to be doing?"

"Chopping wood." The answer came to Hereward swiftly. He wanted any job that might put his hands on an axe.

"Chopping wood, eh? Most of that is done in the forest, before it's even brought here."

"Well, I was told there was some wood to chop at the castle."

"Who told you that?"

"I ... I ..." Hereward's hand crept involuntarily towards the dirk on his belt. "I don't remember his name."

Ralph's frown deepened, but he seemed eager to move on and cease chattering. "Go see Lord Richard FitzScrob. He's overseeing the construction of the keep." Ralph pointed and waited until the boys moved their feet in that direction.

As Hereward approached the looming mound of dirt and shale, he cursed under his breath. The man-made hill stank, as if the earth had vomited its unwanted garbage and deposited it here. The wooden frame of the keep on top might have looked elegant in contrast if Hereward did not know it would be used as a weapon against Anglo-Saxons.

On the other side of the bailey, two Normans began sword-fighting. The sight took Hereward aback until he realized they only fought for sport. They wore helms and chainmail as preparation. This didn't seem like the time or place for that, but they didn't seem to care. On further study, Hereward suspected that one of the swordsmen was actually very young, barely a teenager, but his thick-boned frame made up for his youth. He moved awkwardly, perhaps still adjusting to his growing limbs, and he favored one foot which turned slightly inward. But he swung and chopped with his sword like a Viking berserker, and Hereward could not help but admire his vigor.

The sound of clanging swords now rang harshly through the castle grounds and grated on Hereward's nerves. He felt naked without his own sword or axe at hand. When the time came to escape, he would have to do it quickly or there would be hell to pay. Even the young sword-fighter with a bad leg might get the best of him.

Finally, Hereward spotted a large, broad-shouldered man with a long, jutting chin and two crooked feet standing near a stack of logs as Ralph had described. The must be Richard FitzScrob. The lord leaned against a post as he watched his slaves work on the frame of the keep, his wide forehead gleaming with sweat though he lifted not a finger. His tunic flapped in the breeze against his misshapen legs.

Hereward spat into the dirt and mumbled to his companions. "Fucking Normans. I don't want to talk to their lord."

"Then what are we going to do?" Dudda looked around in terror, his eyes lingering on the sword-fighting duo. The poor fellow looked ready to piss himself.

"We're going to chop some logs anyway. Follow my lead, boys. This will be easy."

He tried with all his might to believe his own lie as he crossed the remaining distance to the slaves at the logs. He took a deep breath and convinced himself that he did this every day. He was just a poor local slave, coming to do work at the castle. No one had any reason to be suspicious of him. Just going to work ...

He ignored Lord Richard, walked right up to the slave chopping wood, and tapped him on the shoulder. "Hello. I can take over for a little while if you want to rest."

The Saxon gladly allowed this, releasing the shaft of the axe from his blistered palms into Hereward's hands. With a sigh of relief, the slave hobbled away.

A wave of satisfaction rushed through Hereward, though he tried to restrain it. The ease of sneaking in here and putting his hands on an axe proved just how submissive his fellow Anglo-Saxons had become. These Normans expected obedience and humility. Hereward would show them that not all Anglo-Saxons had forgotten their pride.

Fear prickled up his skin as he sensed Lord Richard watching him. He hesitated. Perhaps he should wait to act until Lord Richard was distracted. But if he waited too long, he might be discovered. Then he would have no chance at all. He had no idea how he was supposed to be chopping these logs, and Lord Richard might realize that quickly. What other option did he have?

Hereward's hands tightened on the axe. He lifted it slightly.

A scream pierced the air behind him. His heart felt like it would burst in his chest. He nearly flung the axe in a panic. But he twisted to see that the scream had come from one of the sword-fighters. The older soldier crouched on the ground, cradling his arm while blood poured from his wrist. His arm ended there, in a fountain of blood, for his hand lay uselessly on the ground like a lump of meat.

The younger boy took off his helm. His face was set in an expression of fierce determination; no remorse lingered there at all.

"OSBERN!" roared Lord Richard, and Hereward realized that the boy must be Richard's son. Richard FitzScrob came off the post on which he'd been leaning and began limping out to the scandalous scene. "What have you done to Bernard?"

Osbern crossed his arms in front of his chest, even while continuing to clutch his bloody sword. "It seemed the only way to defeat him."

Richard yelled something in Norman. Then the two proceeded to argue in their native tongue.

Now that Hereward realized the disturbance had nothing to do with him, his courage returned. The Normans were distracted now. This was the perfect chance to act.

Without further ado, he leapt over the pile of the logs and began scrambling up the mound.

Doing this was more difficult than he first anticipated. The hill inclined sharply. Under his clawing fingers, the shale scraped his palms. Belatedly he noticed a staircase nearby, but he felt too proud to use it. He slipped and slid as he hastened upwards, all while continuing to grip the axe.

He heard anxious murmurs from the Saxons behind him. A few Normans were yelling, but Hereward hoped that their cries had more to do with the man who had lost his hand sparring than the mysterious Saxon climbing the motte.

At long last, he reached the top and grabbed a post on the large frame of the keep. The complexity of the eight-sided structure intimidated him. If the frame had been complete, he most certainly would not have been able to topple it by chopping one buttress alone. But fortunately, the keep was not yet finished. He located the weakest buttress under the section with the most weight. A lot of ropes also provided support, and those would be easily severed. When he found the perfect spot, he hurried closer and readied his axe.

He recoiled the weapon, then swung with all of his might.

The blade's first bite of wood had minimal effect, spitting a few splinters and creating only a small dent. But Hereward kept swinging, and each time, the post weakened. The entire log began to bend and crack. Above it, connected parts of the keep's frame leaned and creaked with strain.

People started to notice.

Hereward kept swinging regardless, pausing only to look down and find Dudda and Osric on the ground below. He motioned towards an unfinished section of the wall and they moved towards it, understanding.

On the next swing, the entire frame bent over. It would fall soon. Hereward heard a shout most certainly directed at him, but he didn't stop chopping. He must finish this, or it would all be for naught.

Pain shot up his leg and he realized he'd been struck by a rock. He thanked God it had not been an arrow and kept swinging. He glimpsed a Norman with a sword climbing the mound towards him. Hereward put all of his might into another blow.

The beam was cracking. The entire frame would topple with just a little more help. He needed to sever some of the ropes. Hereward had to move around the structure, risking getting pinned under his own destruction, but he put faith in his own agility. He sliced the strained ropes and moved out of the way.

At last, the wooden frame of the keep toppled. Beams cracked and fell rolling down the motte. One log struck the Norman who had been climbing and pinned him into the shale.

Hereward lifted his axe high, for everyone was watching him now, and roared with all of his breath. "Fuck the Normans, and fuck this castle! _This isn't their land!_ "

He saw the eyes of the Anglo-Saxons staring up at him. He wondered if some of them would take heart and encouragement from his display of rebellion. Even now, he saw mostly fear and despair in their gazes. Only a few faces showed the sparks of anger and hatred that he had hoped to ignite, and he worried they weren't strong enough to result in action.

Then he saw an arrow speeding towards him. He dropped his axe and took off running.

The piercing shriek of Osric's whistle was a welcome sound to Hereward's ears. The remainder of his gang would respond to that sound and arrive with the horses. He flailed as he rolled down the mound, finding this a faster method than attempting to keep his footing. He flung earth from his hands and feet as he righted himself and kept running. He glimpsed Osric and Dudda waiting for him in the unfinished section of the wall he had indicated. The Normans focused so much on Hereward they forgot about his companions, which might have given him comfort if not for the fact he had several bows trained on him as a result. He heard another arrow whistle past his ear. Then he barely managed to dodge the swing of someone's sword.

The Anglo-Saxons slaves may not have cheered Hereward on, but they shared the same enemy. When the Normans came after Hereward, a few of the slaves moved to stop them. The slaves dared not initiate combat, but at least they blocked the Normans' progress while giving Hereward a clear path to escape.

By the time he approached the half-built wall, Osric waited for him on top while Dudda stayed below to help him up. Hereward stepped onto Dudda's ready hands and sprang upward. Osric gripped his arms and helped him the rest of the way up.

From the top of the wall he could see the horses galloping out of the trees, and he could taste victory like sweet mead on his lips. He had done it. He had shown the Normans that even one of their precious castles could not withstand the vigor of a young man born of the Fenlands. The frame of the Normans' keep had toppled and they didn't even know what to do about it. For the most part, they still floundered in a state of panic and disbelief.

Meanwhile, Hereward's companions had arrived with the horses. Hereward's triumph faltered under a wave of fear as he realized how far he would have to jump to cross the ditch. The landing would hurt even if he made it across, and if he didn't... he looked down into the deep pit beneath the wall and gulped.

For the spry Osric, the jump posed no problem. He leapt across and rolled as his slender legs struck the grass. Soon enough, he had found his horse and climbed up its saddle.

Hereward wanted to do the same thing, but first he had to help Dudda. He turned back and reached down to grip the boy's pudgy hands. He groaned as the weight of his companion strained his arms.

"A little help, Dudda!" he hissed through gritted teeth. "Damn you're heavy!"

An arrow seemed to sprout suddenly from Dudda's leg. Then Dudda screamed, and his entire body went limp. All of his bulk sank into Hereward's grip, and Hereward realized that if he let the fat oaf slip down any further, Hereward would never be able to lift him back up.

He gritted his teeth so hard he wondered if his jaws would crack. He squeezed the wall between his legs until he felt the stones grinding against the bones of his knee. Then he pulled with all of his might.

Dudda's desperation must have given him a surge of strength as well, for with another kick of his good leg, he propelled himself enough to grip the wall and start pulling. Hereward wasted no time yanking Dudda's girth until his body rolled onto the top. Then he realized that Dudda stood almost no chance of jumping.

Hereward ducked as another arrow sped past his hair. Dudda groaned with agony.

"Dudda, you have to get up and jump," growled Hereward. Hardening himself to his friend's cries, he wrenched the large boy to his feet. "We'll do it together, and I'll try to help you." He met Dudda's eyes, which glazed over with pain. Hereward searched them desperately for a sign of understanding. "Ready, Dudda? On the count of three. One, two, three!"

Hereward crouched briefly, coiling the muscles of his legs like springs before launching himself over the ditch. He gripped Dudda with one hand as he flew and dragged the boy's girth into the air behind him. A squeal of agony ripped from Dudda's throat as his own wounded leg pushed him forward. Together they soared over the darkness of the pit, and for a moment, it looked ready to swallow them. Hereward feared that even if his own feet touched the other side of the ditch, Dudda's would not. He used all of his strength to throw Dudda a little further forward. Doing so sacrificed his own momentum.

His chest slammed against the side of the ditch as Dudda landed with a scream in the safety of the grass.

The impact shoved Hereward's breath from his body. He began slipping downwards, his head spinning. Only when he nearly reached the bottom did he come to his senses enough to dig his fingers into the rocky earth. His entire body ached from the impact, but he forced himself upward, and at long last came scrambling out of the ditch.

He gasped for breath as he collapsed next to Dudda. "Osric, HELP!" Osric rode closer and helped lift Dudda onto a horse. Dudda couldn't straddle it; the pain of the jump had rendered him unconscious. Meanwhile, the arrow protruded from the back of his leg and penetrated all the way through the front of his shin. All they could do was throw him over the saddle on his stomach, then slap his horse's haunches.

By then another Norman had climbed the wall after them. A few stones from Hereward's companions knocked him backwards. Hereward mounted his own horse and lashed it with all of his might.

Hereward and his friends rode towards freedom. But the constant sound of Dudda's moaning soured all feelings of triumph.

*

"God, can he not keep quiet for just a few fucking hours?"

Hereward and his eight followers sat in the dark, too frightened to light a fire even as black night crept through the treetops. They had ridden from the castle like madmen and not stopped until one of the horses went lame and Dudda awoke and started screaming again. He hadn't stopped since.

Before the sun fell, Hereward tried to take a good look at Dudda's injury, but he didn't know what to make of it. The leg bled profusely, and Dudda's movements had ripped the surrounding flesh wide open. The arrow must have pierced a nerve based on the extent of Dudda's agony, and he now seemed unable to move his leg at all, as if long sequence of muscles had been damaged.

Hereward had eventually decided to pull the arrow out, for the wound gaped so large it would bleed a lot anyway. He asked Osric to find cow dung and bring it back to them, for he'd heard this had healing powers. Then they wrapped the wound tight and gave Dudda ale to drink. Despite all of this, Dudda never stopped moaning and his injury never stopped bleeding.

Hereward wandered as far from Dudda's groans as his conscience allowed, then leaned against a tree and looked up at the moon. He upended a pouch of ale over his mouth only to receive a few meager drops. He threw it aside with a growl.

Osric slipped quietly up beside him. "Maybe we should leave him here, then come back."

Hereward was glad that someone had voiced the idea before he did. "Maybe. Might be better for him anyway, to just stay here and rest. We could drop him off at a church."

A dark silence stretched between them.

"Do you feel good about what happened today?" asked Osric.

"Yes, of course." Hereward thought he spoke the truth. So why did he not sound convincing? "We taught those bastards a lesson."

Osric nodded, desperate to believe him.

After that they tried to sleep, though this was next to impossible due to Dudda's constant groaning. And in the darkness of the woods, most of the boys feared evil spirits or wicked elves. In the morning, Hereward announced his decision to the others. Dudda did not understand his fate until he noticed that a few of the boys were carrying him towards a church. He started squirming.

"Hereward?" he moaned. "HEREWARD! What's going on?"

Hereward reluctantly leaned over to face him. "Dudda, we're going to leave you with some monks. Hopefully they'll tend to your wounds. I'll come back for you soon, I promise."

"No, Hereward, please!"

Dudda reached out to grasp Hereward's hand. Hereward gave the chubby fingers a firm squeeze.

"Dudda, you'll be fine. If anyone realizes who you are, they'll be cowering in fear of you. They'll do whatever you tell them to. You'll see."

"No. _No!_ If they recognize me, they'll murder me! All of them! Not just the Normans, but the Saxons, too! Thanks to us, they'll probably be punished. They'll probably be forced to work harder and faster to make up for what we destroyed. Don't leave me here, I beg you. _Don't leave me here!_ "

Hereward yanked his hand from Dudda's. He suddenly felt nauseous. "He's feverish. He must have caught an evil spirit overnight. Get him to the monks, quickly!"

So they left Dudda at a church with the lame horse, without explanation, and hastened back to Lincolnshire as if the hounds of hell chased after them.

Hereward convinced himself he had done the right thing. Everyone else would see that, eventually.

**

7

### Last Tales of Mercia 7:

### GODRIC THE THEGN

(back to Table of Contents)

*

SHROPSHIRE

1054 A.D.

Godric had heard many descriptions of the first Norman castle in Shropshire, but today he observed it in person for the first time. He did not feel especially impressed. Sections of a stone curtain wall rose and fell inconsistently between gaps filled by palisades. Godric surmised that the Normans had run out of stone not far into the project, or something to that effect. Perhaps they'd used all available rocks on the gatehouse, which looked formidable enough. It was the first structure on the castle to be made entirely of stone and mortar. But it would serve little purpose if the walls remained unfinished and the lord had no safe home to sleep in. Altogether the construction of the castle appeared irregular and sloppy, which no doubt resulted from the reluctance of the laborers. Godric wondered why more of the Normans didn't do the work themselves, if they were such experts.

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."

Truly enough, Godric had never lost his taste for Viking fashion, even after leaving Jomsborg. His gauntlets were made of intricately wound leather, and the collar of his tunic folded and laced in a manner uncommon to Engla-lond. He also wore his hair long and sometimes lightened it with limewater. "You're very observant."

"I ask because Hereward's family is Danish. They deeply mourned the passing of King Canute. I think they will respect you and pay heed to your demands."

Godric stirred restlessly. He couldn't deny that Dudda made a good case. He had no better plan anyway. So what might he 'demand'?

If Lord Leofric had mourned the death of Canute, then Godric probably shouldn't mention his own involvement in the event. But he may yet manage to impress them. "Perhaps they would appreciate the fact that I was personally trained by Thorkell the Tall?"

Dudda's eyes doubled in size.

*

The Fenlands had a special beauty to them, for the horizon dropped as if the whole continent of Engla-lond slanted towards the ocean, slipping gradually into the salt-water like a woman dipping her leg. The low valleys gleamed with ponds and riverbeds, flanked with rows of brilliant green reeds. The firmer lands flourished with trees and plants, whether in the form of forests of beech and pine trees or rolling pastures speckled with shrubs of golden flowers. Cows languished in the cool marshes and waterfowl floated across the glassy ponds.

Hereward's family lived on a firm plot of land lush with orchards and gardens. Dudda accompanied Godric to the large wooden manor in order to give Godric support. Godric did not know why he continued to begrudge the young man's help, for indeed, Dudda made everything simpler. Hereward's parents gladly lent their ears to Godric. They listened with horrified expressions as Godric and Dudda explained what Hereward had done, and they apologized profusely for their son's behavior. Then they awaited Godric's judgment.

Godric could think of only one punishment that would satisfy Richard without bloodshed. When he voiced it, Leofric became gravely quiet. After a few moments, the lord asked for a day to think it over. But he also admitted that he had already considered dealing with his son in the exact manner Godric proposed.

Dudda at last went home, groveling to Godric in thanks of his mercy. Godric departed from the fellow as quickly as possible. But he could not go far, for he needed to await Lord Leofric's decision. He settled into the tavern of a small, rickety inn on the rough outskirts of Bourne and proceeded to lose himself in liquor.

At first he didn't even know why he was drinking so much. He rarely drank in such abundance at home. Nothing of great consequence had really happened today; in fact it seemed quite likely that Richard's problem would be solved with little effort whatsoever. So why did he feel as if something lurked deep inside him, gnawing at his nerves, turning in his belly, and filling his mouth with the bitter taste of dissatisfaction?

He lost count on the refills of his drinking horn. The entire tavern seemed to sway around him, and all the faces became blurry. He found himself tapping his foot and thumping his fist on the table to the fast-paced ditty of the tavern's musicians. A woman played the drums while a man's slender fingers plucked deftly at the strings of his psaltery. When the song concluded, Godric stood up and walked over to them, though he found keeping his balance unusually difficult.

"Beautiful, just beautiful," he declared. He reached out and gripped the shoulder of the minstrel with the psaltery. The man flinched with surprise, but Godric gave him a reassuring pat. "Let me buy you a drink."

"Well..."

"I insist."

Godric led—or perhaps dragged—the minstrel up to the innkeeper's counter and purchased some mead for the gleeman, as well as some more for himself. He lifted his sloshing horn high. "To music," he said, "and to friends."

The minstrel wore a puzzled expression, but drank his mead nonetheless.

"You know," said Godric with a happy sigh, "music really is a wonderful thing."

The gleeman attempted a smile. "Thank you. Naturally, I agree."

"I don't think you understand." He leaned close to the minstrel, lowering his voice. "I'm being very serious. You are..." He breathed deeply, searching his mind for the words. Nothing seemed to express what he felt right now clearly enough. "You are God's gift to mankind. Or Thor's. Or someone's. The point is..." He reached out and gripped the minstrel's shoulder. "You saved me. You helped me find the way. God, I don't know where I'd be without you. And now... now..."

He squeezed so tightly that the gleeman winced with pain. Godric hardly noticed, for he was suddenly consumed by a pain of his own. He didn't even know where it came from—only that it seemed to crush his chest and smother his breath from within.

"Now I feel lost again. I think about going home and I get sick to my stomach. Maybe I'm not the man Osgifu believes me to be, after all. Maybe I never can be. Maybe ... oh, Sigurd!" He fell forward and wrapped the minstrel in a smothering embrace. Tears flooded his eye and trickled down his cheek. "I am lost again, Sigurd."

"My name isn't Sigurd!" With much wriggling and squirming, the minstrel finally freed himself from Godric's clutching arms. "I don't know you and I can't help you at all, stranger!"

The gleeman gave a last, forceful shove, and Godric and his stool went hurtling backwards.

*

Godric awoke to the sensation that two spikes were winding up his neck, prodding the back of his skull. His aching eye showed him that he lay in a dark room of the inn, sharing the floor with many other travelers. The smell of roasting meat drifted through the cabin walls from the tavern kitchens and made Godric painfully aware of his churning stomach. He barely had time to turn sideways before he vomited up the remnants of last night's meal into the bug-ridden rushes.

The memories of the night before came back to him in blurry pieces. He couldn't put them into any sort of meaningful picture except that he knew he had greatly embarrassed himself. He hoped he had managed not to tell anyone his name. Perhaps he could soon go home and forget that any of this ridiculous mission had ever occurred at all. He tried to clean up after himself, then quickly made his way out of the room.

In the tavern he avoided the gazes of every occupant and bought himself some breakfast. The food helped settle his stomach but did nothing to relieve the stabbing pain in his head or weariness of his body.

He also felt a strange ache in his heart that he supposed had driven him to drink so much in the first place. In the dull throb of the morning, his inner pain threatened to resurface. Normally, he might try to smother the feeling in the arms of Osgifu. Here he had no such option.

He felt like a fool. Why had he come here? Why had he agreed to this ridiculous task? Surely enough, it proved to be bloodless. But that left him with the awful realization that he hoped it would not be.

He paid his dues and made his way out of the inn. He had half a mind to assume that he had fulfilled his promise to Richard and ride straight back home. Hopefully the parents would punish Hereward as he suggested—they seemed as if they'd already decided to anyway, and just needed to muster the courage to go through with it.

He was on his way to the stables to retrieve his horse when the shadows of three men fell over him.

Godric squinted at the silhouettes, fighting the pain in his skull as the sun bored into it. After much discomfort he managed to discern that the men were quite young, except for one on the left, a tall gentleman with especially long legs. The one on the right was smaller and lanky, twirling a knife in his fingers. And the one in the middle must certainly be Hereward. Godric knew as soon as he met the youth's gaze. The lad was well-built and handsome, nicely dressed and groomed. But his face was red, his eyes swollen as if he had been crying for hours.

"You're the man named Godric?" he asked hoarsely.

Godric sighed and nodded. "Yes, what of it?"

He did not even have time to flinch before Hereward's fist came hurtling towards his stomach; as the blow hit, Godric wondered if he might lose yet another meal in front of an audience. Somehow he held it in, but he still bent far over, clutching his stomach and struggling to stay standing.

"Some Saxon you are," sneered Hereward. "I try to make a stance against the Norman parasites on our country. And you have me _exiled_ from Engla-lond?"

Godric took in a weary breath as he straightened back up. "So your parents decided to go through with it, after all." Despite all the pain of his wine-sickened body, Godric's heart lifted. He had accomplished his goal. He had gotten Hereward exiled, and thus made an intimidating example of him. Richard would be pleased.

"Yes. So they did." Hereward reached out and grabbed the top of Godric's hair. He twisted the strands and forced Godric to look at him. "I'm an outlaw. I suppose that means I can do whatever I want now and it won't make much difference, eh, Godric?" He leaned in close, lowering his voice. "Perhaps that was a mistake on your part."

Godric saw Hereward's hand curling up on the corner of his vision. The fist sped forward. Then it _smacked_ against Godric's palm.

Hereward's eyes widened with surprise. Absorbing the blow required more strength than Godric cared to admit, and his shoulder complained of the effort. But he did not let this show, and spoke back to Hereward in a calm and level voice. "I am loyal to King Edward, and I will fight for his decisions." Godric's fingers wrapped around Hereward's fist and began to squeeze it. His other hand grabbed the arm yanking his hair. He tightened his grip around Hereward's wrist, feeling the strain of fragile bones under the skin. "You say your stance is against the Normans. What does that mean? You must try to fight for something, Hereward. Not just against."

Hereward cried out with pain as Godric's grip became excruciating. Then his face twisted with anger, and he shifted to make his next move.

Godric saw the kick coming, but he did not have the time nor energy to dodge it. Instead he merely tried to prepare himself for the blow, tensing and curling as Hereward's boot thrust into his stomach. But he was still sore from Hereward's punch and he already felt sick, so the blow overwhelmed him more than he expected. He lost his footing and stumbled backwards, catching himself with clumsy hands in the grass. His head throbbed and the world spun around him.

"Foolish old man." Hereward pushed back his shoulders and thrust out his chest as he looked down at Godric.

Godric took the opportunity to recover his breath and reorient himself. He noticed a stack of logs nearby. Someone had left an axe still lodged in the wood.

"I can do whatever the hell I want," Hereward continued. "Now more than ever. I can travel the world as I please. I can bed whomever I want; I can quarrel with whomever I'd like. I don't even have to make a fucking _stance_. I can simply fight for me."

Hereward moved closer. With a flick of his wrist he had his knife in his hand, flashing in the morning sun.

Godric shuffled backwards across the grass. Hereward followed him, knife poised. To anyone watching, Godric probably seemed to be backing away in fear. "You remind me of someone I once knew," hissed Godric. "He believed God had chosen him for greatness. He did not care who got hurt because of his own pride and greed."

"I will be a hero!"

Godric's back stopped against the woodpile. "And he was a king. I don't give a shit. You are still just a man, and you will bleed as red as any other."

"As will you!" cried Hereward, and dashed forward with the knife.

Godric dodged and twisted as the blade split the side of his tunic, not grazing the skin. Meanwhile he swung out both legs and entangled them in Hereward's, knocking his feet opposite directions. As Hereward fell, Godric grabbed the axe and wrenched it free. He straightened while Hereward sputtered and thrashed against the grass, fumbling to keep a grip on his knife. Just as he was starting to right himself, Godric sent a kick to his ribs. He struck hard enough to wind young Hereward, who struggled to draw a ragged breath. Godric climbed to his feet and stood over him, axe at the ready.

The slender fellow in Hereward's gang was the first to interfere. Godric knew to expect this, but he pretended to remain oblivious as the boy sneaked towards him with a dagger. He moved swiftly and silently, and Godric might have gotten stabbed in the back if he hadn't known better. At the last moment Godric reached back and knocked away the assailant's arm. He gripped the middle of the axe-shaft and swung the blunt wood across the boy's skull. Perhaps he struck a little too hard, for the boy passed out immediately, blood trickling from his forehead.

Godric sent a warning glance to the last man standing, the older fellow with long legs. The man seemed to know he was bested and kept his distance, a resolute frown on his face.

Hereward was squirming again. Godric's boot on Hereward's forearm kept him pinned, for he could not even lift himself up without straining his elbow the wrong direction. But Godric worried about Hereward's tenacity getting the better of him. He stomped harder, and did not realize he had gone too far until he heard a small _snap_ followed by Hereward's scream.

"It's your own damn fault," said Godric, trying to mask his own guilt for breaking a bone on accident. "You'd better stop struggling, for you've already lost."

Godric lifted his axe. At first he planned to deliver a non-fatal injury, like chopping off Hereward's hand. Then he wondered why he shouldn't just see the job all the way through. After all, he'd already broken Hereward's arm.

His veins felt on fire. Despite his embarrassment last night, despite the illness with which he'd awoken, he suddenly felt more invigorated than he had in years. He could kill this braggart right now and do King Edward another favor. An exile would not even require a life price. Most people would turn a blind eye on Godric's decision. Lord Richard would both trust and respect him. But more than anything, killing Hereward would satiate that gnawing sensation deep in his guts, the one that kept him up at night, the one that made a fool of him in Osgifu's absence. That awful hunger, or whatever it was, might go away—at least for a little while.

The aim of his axe faltered. The decision weighed too heavily. Better just to swing the axe, and let it fall as it willed.

The kick in his side seemed to come from nowhere. He thought the tall man remained too far away to touch him. But somehow he had moved close enough to catch Godric within the reach of his long legs. Godric stumbled backwards, barely managing to keep hold of his axe.

His exhaustion and wine-sickness got the better of him. A searing heat burned through his skull and threatened to blast out his only eye. He felt nauseous again, so his stomach ached inside and out, sore from being punched and kicked. He managed to stay standing, hiding his state of pure debilitation, and perhaps that was the only reason he walked away with his life.

As Hereward got up, his eyes tearing with rage and pain, he looked ready to rip Godric apart with his bare hands. But he could not do so. He cradled his broken arm while his long-legged friend pulled him the other direction.

"Martin, let _go of me!_ "

"You go on. I'll get Osric. We must away, Hereward. You're in no state to fight this man."

Martin picked up the unconscious Osric while Hereward continued to glare at Godric with eyes of blue fire. His jaws bulged with strain as he nearly grinded his teeth apart. But as his long-legged friend suggested, Hereward kept his distance. "You bastard," he snarled. "I hope you burn in hell one day."

Hereward turned and staggered away. With Osric in his arms, Martin sprinted after him. Godric stood unmoving until he watched the three of them get on their horses and vanish in the horizon.

Then he dropped his axe and fell to his knees. His hands were trembling. They reached to his belt and pulled out the long dagger, or seax, with a ruby on the hilt of it. He had carried it with him a long while now. It had tasted much blood.

Why had he accepted this mission? Why had he nearly killed Hereward? Hereward was just a cocky young man with wayward ambitions. He differed little from some of the Jomsvikings Godric had known and admired in the past. But Godric had nearly killed him anyway. Because he would never change. He would never stop thirsting for blood. Sure, he would behave so long as he stayed in his little cabin and kept his axe in the shed where it belonged. But given the right opportunity, he would go right back to being the man he did not want to be. The man Osgifu did not want him to be.

He sheathed the knife and searched for a small pouch of ale still on his belt. Even if it made him feel sicker, he didn't care. As long as it got rid of this horrible feeling, he would drink it.

"Godric?"

Godric started and dropped the pouch. He thought he must be going mad, for he turned and saw a familiar minstrel with soft blond hair, wearing colorful linens and a little green cap. Surely it could not be possible. This must be the worst wine-sickness he had ever experienced.

"Oh, Godric."

The minstrel fell towards him. Wrapped Godric in his arms. Held him tight, and spoke with a sweet, melodic voice. "Godric, that's not going to help."

"Sigurd?" This was no liquor-induced hallucination. Sigurd really crouched here in the mud of Lincolnshire, embracing Godric and speaking words of comfort. Godric grabbed the minstrel's shoulders and pushed him back. " _What are you doing here?_ "

Sigurd's funny little beard twisted with a bashful smile. "I followed you."

"Why the hell would you _do that?_ " Godric didn't realize until Sigurd's cap fell off that he was shaking the minstrel much too forcefully.

Sigurd twisted out of Godric's grip and put his cap back on with a reddening face. "I happened to visit your house shortly after you left. Osgifu acted strangely. She didn't want to tell me where you went, though she couldn't completely lie about it, as it's not in her nature. I wrested the last bits of truth from Edric."

"That little... !"

"Suffice it to say I put the clues together and—well, Godric, I know you. I worried that things might get... out of hand. I worried that you might do something you regret."

Godric felt increasingly mortified, as much by the fact that Sigurd had been following him all this time as the fact he'd been right to do so. "How much did you... ?"

Sigurd cocked a curious eyebrow, but answered honestly. "I only caught up to you this morning. But it seems I did so just in time."

"Sigurd. I ..." Godric's voice caught. All the words he'd said last night returned to him from the liquor-laden fog in his head. He wondered if he ought to say them again. But they caught somewhere in his throat, unable to come out. He felt the pricking of a tear against his eye, but his body was too parched to release it.

Sigurd waited, watching Godric intently. The long silence stretched between them, on and on until all of its potential seemed to crack and crumble away.

"I can't believe you were watching that entire time and did nothing," said Godric at last.

Sigurd sighed and shrugged. "I was ready to interfere, but that Martin fellow kicked you before I could. Fast legs, that one."

Godric glowered. "I mean I can't believe you didn't _help_ me."

"Help you? Why would I possibly think you needed help against that sorry lot? Though I am surprised you look so exhausted. You must really be getting old, Godric."

Godric shoved the minstrel again as he climbed to his feet. He staggered on his first few steps towards the stables. When Sigurd put an arm around his shoulders, Godric leaned ever so slightly against him.

**

8

### Last Tales of Mercia 8:

### AUDREY THE SLAVE

(back to Table of Contents)

*

RICHARD'S CASTLE, SHROPSHIRE

1058 A.D.

All Audrey wanted to do was sleep. Despite her night meal of pottage and bread, her stomach continued to ache with hunger. Despite the thick calluses across her palms, her skin still felt raw from carrying stones all day. Despite the vigor of her youth and the strength of her muscles, her body never ceased to feel sore and weary. And despite seven years of experience with which to grow accustomed to her fate, she dreaded tomorrow so much that her head spun just thinking about it. But the one thing she looked forward to each day was the end of it: that sweet moment she could lay down her body, let her muscles unwind, stare up at the flickering ceiling of the slaves' hall, and sink slowly into oblivion.

Distractions often made sleeping difficult. Lice ran abundant in the hall, and she spent many nights scratching and tossing in her blankets. Some of the slaves often caused noise, despite their own weariness. A few of them would drown their sorrows in ale and make a great ruckus before finally passing out. A romantic couple often tried to make love quietly under the blankets, but the woman's moans of pleasure would echo loudly enough to make Audrey blush and stir in her own bed. But Audrey's fear of the future plagued her most of all. Anxiety that the next day would be worse than the last sometimes chased the relief of sleep away from her.

Over time, Audrey had learned to conquer most of these distractions. She had trained her mind to push aside bad sensations and thoughts until nothing but a blank awareness remained. From that state, she drifted easily into dark slumber.

But something about tonight was different. The voices she heard talking were her own friends, if such things existed in Richard's castle. The boys had all entered servitude around the same time as Audrey—the year Richard FitzScrob chose to seize control in Shropshire by seizing his his tenants' children or undesirables. And they were not just telling silly stories to distract themselves from the grim monotony of their everyday lives. No—they were talking about escaping.

She tried to cover her ears. She tried to roll away and scrunch into a ball as if the entire world would cease to bother her as a result. Even then, she could not stop hearing their foolish conversation, spoken far too loudly, revealing their idiocy with every word out of their mouths. Finally, she couldn't stand it anymore.

Audrey crawled out of her blankets, forcing her heavy limbs to unfold and carry her towards the group of five teenagers huddling in the corner. They shut their mouths upon her approach and stared up at her with guilty eyes. Somehow, despite the fact Audrey was the youngest and smallest of them, they always seemed to wilt in her presence.

"Escaping is easy," she hissed. An itch in her knot of blond of hair made her reach up and scratch angrily. "Don't you all understand that? I could have escaped a hundred times before if I wanted to. The reason I haven't is because there's nowhere for us to run. If we went home, our families would just have to turn us back in or live in fear of Lord Richard's wrath while trying to hide us."

"Fuck our families." Rodgar's brown eyes glared at Audrey through the candlelight. He was the oldest of the group at sixteen years, and he liked to take control of any situation, especially if he sensed Audrey trying to wrest it from him. Audrey always felt intimidated by him, for he was much bigger and experienced in the world than she was. The fact he was rather handsome with his dark, chiseled features and long lashes didn't help matters—but Audrey tried not to think too much about that. Rodgar had probably been the one to start this discussion about escaping in the first place, and he would not let Audrey hinder his plans. "Our families are the ones who gave us up and put us here."

"They had no choice!" This from Gimm, a skittish and ugly fellow who nonetheless carried an undue compassion for people in general. He was always the first to defend anyone if no one else seemed willing to do so. "Our families had to give us up. Or why else would we be here?" His eyes searched the group, desperate for someone to confirm this for him.

"They might have fought for us, at least," said Anson, as sullen as ever. He sat next to Rodgar with a deep-set frown on his face. Sometimes he supported Rodgar, other times he backed Audrey; generally, he followed whoever took the angriest view of things. "Like that Outlaw a few years ago."

Audrey sighed. She had never learned the name of the boy who broke into the castle four years ago and cut down the wooden frame of Richard's keep. If the Normans knew his name, they had successfully kept any slaves from discovering it. They said only that the boy had been exiled from Engla-lond for his crimes and and henceforth was known as the Outlaw. "The Outlaw is the reason Lord Richard wanted us to build the keep in stone so quickly," she pointed out. She didn't like speaking against the Outlaw; she admired him as much as anyone. Nonetheless, their lives had become doubly miserable ever since his visit. "He's also the reason it's so difficult for us to get our hands on weapons or do anything at all without permission."

"If you want to spend the rest of your life as a slave here," said Rodgar, "go on ahead, Audrey. We'll be sorry to lose you, but it's your decision. The rest of us are going to escape tomorrow."

She had heard little bits and pieces of their plan. It would be a miracle if the entire hall hadn't heard it. The boys would be carrying stones up and down the motte as usual. Lord Richard FitzScrob would be gone, as well as most of the usual knights, and only the son Osbern would be in charge. Rodgar planned to knock Osbern in the head with a rock and then escape down the western escarpment, where the drop was too steep for a wall and no one would see them from the other side of the motte.

"And _then_ _what?_ " she insisted. "Do you have a plan for what happens next? Where will you go? What will you do?"

"I don't care. Anywhere's better than here."

The other boys nodded their heads in grim acknowledgment. Audrey resisted the urge to agree. She hadn't seen enough of the outside world to know whether Rodgar was right. Maybe he knew better than she did. But what if he didn't?

She shook her mess of blond hair and snapped at them as she turned to go, "Whatever you do, do it quietly, so I can get some fucking sleep."

They obeyed, and after that, the hall became so silent that she could hear nothing but her own thoughts. But her thoughts proved worse than the boys' loudest whispers, for she could not stop wondering whether Rodgar was right.

*

The next day, she stuck close to the group even though she knew she should not. Perhaps curiosity was to blame. Perhaps part of her wanted the option to escape with them when they made their move, even though she still planned to stay. Or perhaps her fondness for the boys she had worked alongside for so many years drove her to foolishly watch over them. Nonetheless, she stayed with them while they carried rocks up and down the motte, whispering discreetly to each other whenever they could, watching all the guards and waiting for their chance to escape.

As Audrey made her regular climb up and down the motte, she considered how far the castle had come since she first became a slave. She had watched these walls and buildings develop from the ground up. She had helped carve the spikes of the first palisades, then carried water to the masons who constructed the gatehouse. She had seen the wooden frame of the keep topple thanks to the Outlaw, and witnessed the dramatic transformation of the motte immediately afterwards. Lord Richard had demanded extra security around the motte consisting of another ditch and palisades. Then he focused the efforts of almost all of his laborers to the keep. The large tower now loomed two stories high, its eight buttresses stretching further into the sky for a third level. The stone walls were twelve feet thick at the bottom and decreasingly thinner as they stretched upward. Thus all the more stones to carry.

On some days, the slaves would stand in a line and pass the stones up to the laborers at the top of the keep. But today, with Lord Richard gone, work was not so organized. Slaves tried to get jobs in other areas, such as thatching roofs or tending animals—anything so they would not have to spend another day carrying rocks. Osbern FitzRichard didn't seem to notice that the labor grew more disorganized as a result. All he seemed to care about was that the slaves were _working_ , and he paid little heed as to what they worked on or why.

One way or another, Osbern seemed in a particularly grumpy mood that morning. The nineteen-year-old watched Audrey's group from the shadows of the keep, holding a stick that he whacked intermittently against the wall. A few times, he whacked it against a laggard slave. His bad leg seemed to be bothering him, for whenever he walked he winced more than usual. But worst of all, he called several times upon the company of Audrey's least favorite knight.

Sir Geoffrey had not spent much time at Richard's castle until recently. Audrey suspected this had something to do with the fact his wife had born a child, according to gossip, and one might easily surmise that the man did not like babies. But many rumors abounded concerning the knight Geoffrey, and Audrey could not help but pay attention, for some of the rumors caused much concern. People said that whoever displeased the knight often "disappeared," never to be seen or heard from again. Two slaves berated by Lord Richard for unruly behavior had in fact vanished from Richard's castle in the last few years, both around the time Sir Geoffrey had come to visit. He had scraggly yellow hair that wisped around his gaunt face and golden eyes that reminded her of a cat on the prowl.

Eventually Audrey noticed Rodgar's boys gathering near the west of the keep, where they would dare to escape down the highest, steepest ditch in the entire castle. Gimm carried a large sack on his shoulder. She wondered how the boy had enough possessions to make the bag sag with so much weight. Rodgar had not yet joined them, but the boys looked around as if expecting him to show up at any moment. Rodgar must be waiting for his chance to knock out Osbern with a stone. Did he know about Geoffrey?

Her heart in her throat, Audrey tried to make her way back to the two Normans lingering in the shade of the keep. She did not find Rodgar, but she remained anyway. She thought she might as well eavesdrop on the two men and see what they were up to.

"I am so _bored_ ," Osbern said to the knight.

"Then find something that sustains your attention," said Geoffrey, "and pursue it." His voice had a slow, drawling quality that made Audrey's hair stand on end.

"Father doesn't want me to spar with anyone while he's gone. I suppose he doesn't want me to hurt someone on accident. But people should realize that's just a risk of playing swords. And if it wasn't, what would be the point?"

"I agree, Suzerain."

A note of hopefulness entered Osbern's voice. "Geoffrey, perhaps you and I could play something together. Do you like chess?"

"Not particularly."

"Oh." Osbern's disappointment was obvious, even to Audrey, who stood at a distance.

"Perhaps someone else could play with you, Suzerain."

"I don't think so." Osbern whacked his stick against the wall loudly enough to make Audrey flinch. Nonetheless, she remained crouched around the corner of the keep, listening with helpless fascination.

After taking a moment to overcome his anger, Osbern spoke again. "What sort of things do you do with your friends, Geoffrey?"

"Friends?" Geoffrey's normally monotonous voice now had an edge to it.

"Yes, well, you know what I mean."

"I'm afraid I do not, Suzerain."

Audrey could not help herself. She crept closer. She wanted to see the looks on their faces. But as soon as she did, she noticed Geoffrey staring back at her.

Audrey's stomach seemed to drop to her toes. Her legs wanted to melt and leave her in a helpless puddle. But she mustered all her courage and remained standing, staring back at him. She thought this was a good idea until she realized that the longer she stared at Geoffrey, the more intense his gaze became. So she switched her focus to Osbern.

"Forgive me, my lord." She failed to hide the wavering of her voice. "I just wanted to know if... if... if you'd like some sort of refreshment."

Osbern blinked with surprise. He had a strange face, rather large and bony in its features, but relatively proportionate. If his thick lips weren't always frowning or his big eyes always glaring, he might actually look handsome. For one fleeting moment, his scowl dropped away and revealed that other side of him. "I... well... I suppose I could use some fresh water." He came forward and handed her his horn. As Audrey took it, Osbern's brown eyes sparked with the slightest hint of cheer. "What about you, Geoffrey?"

"I am well, thank you."

Audrey bowed her head, but couldn't help noticing that the knight's eyes remained on her, unmoving.

She should have walked away. She should have let events play out as her friends ordained. But she could not stand by and do nothing while her friends got themselves killed—for now she felt certain that was exactly what would happen. Earlier, she had thought she might lure Geoffrey away from Osbern and thereby help her friends with their asinine mission. But now she wondered if the knight had already guessed that something was amiss. She felt as if he could see straight through her, from the quivering of her knees to the racing of her thoughts.

Her friends would get caught trying to escape today. She sensed it deep in her gut, as clearly as she might see a storm approaching on the horizon. If one of the knights like Sir Ralph or Sir Fulbert had been in charge today, the risk of a scuffle or arrow-wound might have been worth the reward. But with a man like Geoffrey on watch, her friends would pay with their lives. She knew enough about Geoffrey to predict that he wouldn't hesitate to kill a single one of them. Or even worse, they might just "vanish," and their families would spend the rest of their lives wondering what had happened to them.

She felt sick to her stomach. She didn't want to betray her friends. But she wondered if a small treachery might save their lives, in the end. Any victory had been forfeited the moment Geoffrey looked at her and she stared back defiantly. Perhaps that was her fault. She had put him on the alert. So at least she might stop the worst from happening; perhaps she could stop her friends before they broke any rules at all.

Before she walked away, she willed herself to speak. "There's a... a group of boys taking a break on the berm of the motte. They don't mean any harm, you know. But I thought maybe you should tell them to get back to work, before they get too comfortable."

Osbern looked back at her with a strange expression. He seemed once again on the verge of gratefulness, but he didn't know how to express it. "Thank you, uh, for letting me know. As you should. Back to work, then."

Audrey's hands didn't stop shaking until she had walked across the bailey to the nearest bucket of water and dipped Osbern's horn in it. Even though she now stood on the other side of the bailey, far away from Osbern and his knight, she could still sense Geoffrey's gaze on her like a cold wind snaking beneath her clothes. She hoped she had done the right thing. She hoped her friends would only have to pay for taking a long recess rather than attempting to run away.

"Audrey."

Audrey started and turned to see Rodgar staring down at her. She took a deep breath of relief. If Rodgar was still here, he had not yet attempted to bash Osbern in the head. Which meant Osbern could break up the group before anything bad might happen. "Rodgar." She straightened and turned to walk back to the motte.

"What's that?" He stared with disgust at the finely polished horn in her hands.

"I'm getting water for Osbern."

"Give it here. Let me piss in it."

"Fuck off, Rodgar."

He managed to grab the horn before she could dodge him. He spit a thick wad into the water. Audrey groaned with disgust. "What do you want from me?" she cried.

"I want you to escape with us. Please, Audrey. I know you're scared of the world outside these walls. But it's better than the hell in here, I promise you."

"I never said I'm _scared_." She stopped to glare at him, but the desperation in his eyes caught her by surprise. She wondered if she should tell him that it was already too late to escape. But the way his gaze searched for hope wrenched her heart.

"We could go to a new town, somewhere no one will find us. We can use the skills we've gained here to get jobs. _Real_ jobs, where we're paid real coin for our labor." A pink wave suffused his cheeks. "You're a girl. It might be even easier for you to find... something, if you really needed to."

"You rotten fucking scoundrel!" She shoved him, hard enough to make him stagger. But he recovered all too quickly.

"I'm serious, Audrey. Our lives might be difficult. But at least they would be _our_ lives."

"And what would be the point of them?" Her own question surprised her. Lives were lives. They shouldn't need to have a point. And yet as she considered why she asked it, she approached a disturbing revelation. So long as she stayed here, working on this castle, she knew that her life had a purpose. She knew her role in the world, however miserable. She knew that her labor contributed something greater than herself. And as much as she hated lugging stones, she knew that one day, this castle would be finished and that would partially be her doing.

And that's why she hadn't really wanted to escape.

Outside of Richard's castle, what purpose would she serve? What role would she play? The task of surviving, and surviving alone, did not satisfy her. How could she explain that to Rodgar? How could she explain that until she found out what she would live for outside of this castle, she might as well stay here forever?

A loud yell from the top of the motte saved her from trying to explain herself. Audrey and Rodgar didn't hesitate. They turned and ran towards the sound.

At the base of the keep, Audrey was initially relieved to find all the boys still standing near the berm. None of them had tried to escape yet. No severe punishments could be made. But her dismay returned when she saw Osbern struggling with Gimm, the one who had yelled, while Geoffrey stood nearby. The knight held the same sack in his hands that Audrey had seen slung over Gimm's shoulder. Geoffrey reached in and pulled out a piece of bread, then a pouch of liquid.

"Food and spirits, Suzerain." Geoffrey pulled out the stop of the pouch and sniffed its contents. "Some of our finest."

Osbern roared with anger as he shoved Gimm into the dirt. Gimm landed on his stomach, his breath catching short as the wind was knocked out of him. Osbern pressed his knee into Gimm's spine while struggling to hold Gimm's thrashing arms.

"So you're not just lazy," snarled Osbern. "You're a _thief!_ " He struck Gimm in the back of the head. Gimm's eyes glazed over slightly and his arms went limp.

Audrey's heart sank. She had not realized that Gimm's bag had been stuffed with stolen goods, but she should have deduced as much. The boys would need to feed themselves, and how else to do that but steal? The fact that Gimm had been the one to take the food was the saddest aspect of it all, for of course he would be the one to consider how everyone might go hungry once they escaped, and he would be bold enough to ensure their future comfort. In the end, his thoughtfulness and compassion condemned him.

Osbern put his hand on his knife, but his face twisted with uncertainty. He turned to look at Geoffrey. "What do you suggest I do with a thief, Geoffrey?"

Geoffrey stood very, very still. Only his chest moved, for he breathed somewhat heavily. Audrey could not read his expression at all. "Your father would want a trial. Is that what you want?"

"Those insufferable charades? I don't think so."

The slightest smile touched Geoffrey's mouth. "Then take something from him, as he took something from you."

Osbern's eyes darkened. He unsheathed his knife. Then he stuck out one boot and pressed it against Gimm's arm. The boy was still conscious, but he was dizzy and weak, his struggles half-hearted. He could not yet see that Osbern's blade approached his fingers.

"My lord, please!" The words came out of Audrey's mouth before she could stop them. She should have known better. Arguing against Osbern would only make him more determined. "You got the food back. Besides, he needs his fingers if he's to work on the castle!"

Osbern hesitated. "That's true."

Gimm, who now realized the gravity of his predicament, increased his struggles. Osbern grabbed his hair and wrenched his head upwards, then spoke to Geoffrey. "Help me hold him." As Geoffrey got into position, Osbern put his dagger against Gimm's ear.

"Let this be a lesson to all of you," he said, and then began sawing.

As Gimm's screams split the air, Audrey wanted nothing more than to run away and hide. But she knew that would be wrong. She needed to be here with Gimm and suffer alongside him. Most importantly, she needed to accept the grim reality of her existence here. She and her friends were slaves. Nothing more. And even years of unpaid labor did not entitle them to a single sack of food.

Blood poured. Gimm's face contorted with agony. Osbern's jaw set with grim determination as he struggled to cut through flesh. But no image would linger in Audrey's mind longer than the gaze of Geoffrey, whose eyes watched it all happen with a gleam of pure euphoria.

When it was over, Osbern tossed the ear over the edge of the berm. He withdrew and wiped sweat from his brow. Audrey noticed that his hands shook and a snarl of disgust lingered on his face. At the very least, he had not enjoyed Gimm's punishment as much as Geoffrey. Obsern staggered over to Audrey, held out his bloody hand, and demanded, "Water."

Somehow, Audrey had remained clutching Osbern's horn this entire time, her fingers growing white around its ridges. She remembered how Rodgar had spat in it. Then she gladly handed it over.

*

"We'll make our move on Saturn's day, when Sir Ralph escorts us to the quarry."

Audrey had joined the boys in their late-night huddle. Now that she'd taken charge, she had called them together much later in the night, when most of the other slaves were deeply asleep. She also forced everyone to speak in very low whispers. Rodgar had not even challenged her authority when she announced she had a plan. Ever since Osbern cut off Gimm's ears several days ago, Rodgar rarely spoke at all. He seemed more traumatized by the event than Gimm himself. Perhaps he had told Gimm to steal the food, and thus considered the blame as his own.

Audrey had not confessed that it had all been her fault. She regretted what had happened that day, but she could not go back and change it. The only thing to do now was move forward. She understood now that Rodgar had been right. Any life was better than this one. Any role she might play would be better than serving the Normans. Normans like Osbern, however lonely, would never see her as more than a slave for their bidding. And they did not deserve to live in a castle built by her hands.

A small pile of stones on the motte had been stained by Gimm's mutilation. Osbern used them in the construction anyway. This simple act had illustrated to Audrey that she could no longer take pride in her role as a laborer. Her work did not contribute to something great and magnificent. It enabled the creation of a monstrosity; a monstrosity that would further empower the Normans to terrorize their Anglo-Saxon neighbors.

"Sir Ralph is a nice man." Gimm spoke so softly Audrey barely heard him. His eyes stared sadly into the single flickering candle. He reached up to scratch at the bandage around his head where his ear had once been, then thought better of it and lowered his hand. "I hate to do that to him."

Audrey couldn't believe Gimm still felt any sympathy for the Normans at all. But she understood the sentiment. "I know. That's why it must be him. He's the most likely to relax his guard. And his squire is an idiot. We'll corner them both in the narrow gorge just before we reach the quarry. They'll be carrying a decent load of food for the journey, and we'll take it from them before we go."

"What about the horses?" said Rodgar. "We could steal those, too."

"We leave them. They'd make us easier to track, even if we escaped faster. There wouldn't be enough for all of us, anyway."

"Why not kill Ralph and his squire?" asked Anson from the shadows. "We'll already be outlaws. We might as well go all the way."

"Absolutely not!" Audrey leaned close to him, hissing against his sour expression. "It's too risky to kill anyone. Tie them up, knock them out, perhaps. But not kill." She drew back and regarded the rest of the group. "Besides, I'd rather we not think of ourselves as outlaws. We are escaping unjust captivity, which seems lawful enough to me, if King Edward would come to his senses. We are all of age and we deserve to swear fealty to the lords of our choice; not a foreigner who dragged us from home as children."

Everyone considered the truth of her words.

"Until then," said Audrey, "rest plenty and—most importantly—don't do anything _foolish_. Act submissively. Pretend that what happened to Gimm scared you into obedience. Don't show them your hope or your confidence, no matter how excited you may get. Save all that for Saturn's day. Understand?"

Reluctant nods.

"Very good. Now get to bed."

As she shuffled back to her blankets, Audrey marveled at her own transformation. A few days ago she had tried to convince them all that escape was futile. Now she led the charge to freedom. She was glad none of them held this against her. The incident with Gimm nearly broke the boys' resolve, but it had fiercely ignited Audrey's. The group preferred following her lead to losing hope altogether.

"Psst. Audrey."

She scowled as Rodgar shuffled onto the floor next to her. She recognized his voice, but could hardly see him as he groped through the darkness. His hands found the messy knot of her hair. She smacked his hand away. "You should be resting!"

She felt him as he stretched across the floor, his knees bumping hers, his breath tickling her nose. She wondered what on earth he was doing. She had no time to prepare herself when he moved even closer and latched his lips around hers.

She didn't move at all—either due to shock, the fear that she might somehow make matters worse, or the conflicting emotions that told her that Rodgar's kiss was both disgusting and pleasant all at the same time. Fortunately he didn't move either, as if equally petrified, until at last he decided his lips had lingered long enough and released her.

"I sure hope that was an accident," whispered Audrey, finding herself somewhat breathless.

"Audrey." His hand groped awkwardly again, then found her shoulder and gripped it. "I am glad you changed your mind. I hope you know now that there will be something to look forward to, something to live for, once we get out of this place."

"Yes." Perhaps he meant something else entirely, but Audrey now understood what role she would serve once she escaped from these walls. "I am going to live for the day I see all of these fucking stones ripped out of this castle and put back in the earth where they belong."

*

It should have been a good plan. It should have worked smoothly. Audrey thought she had foreseen everything.

But she had not foreseen the possibility that Sir Geoffrey would escort her group to the quarry that day instead of Sir Ralph.

She did not know why the switch happened. Was Ralph sick? Must he tend to something more important? Or did Geoffrey somehow know what Audrey's group planned to do? Surely not. They had revealed nothing, given no sign. They provided every indication that the loss of Gimm's ear taught them total submission. Geoffrey couldn't possibly suspect that Audrey and the boys would try to escape today.

And yet there seemed no better explanation. Geoffrey rarely committed to such dull tasks as this one. Ralph didn't mind them because traveling to and from the quarry with some of the laborers gave him a chance to socialize. Geoffrey had no such excuse.

Perhaps bad luck alone caused her plight; she certainly had enough of that in her life. But as the group left the castle and made its way through the fields with Geoffrey, two horses, and a wagon, she decided it did not matter. One way or another Geoffrey would be the man they must attack in order to escape today. Whatever the risk, they would do their best to overcome him. Now that Audrey had made up her mind to escape, she felt as if nothing in the world could stop her.

Nonetheless, she trembled almost the entire journey to the gorge where they would confront him. She took little comfort in the soft yellow sunshine, the tart spring breeze, or the fields of budding flowers. She could not even enjoy the opportunity to walk through fresh grass without carrying a burden in her arms. She could focus on nothing but Geoffrey, who walked silently beside his horse and wagon, staring stoically ahead.

Her efforts did at least yield some reward: by watching Geoffrey constantly, she noticed that he did not seem particularly alert today. His eyes sagged a little, and a few times he yawned. Could it be a ploy of some sort? Or was he actually as exhausted as he looked? Audrey remembered hearing that his wife had born a baby and wondered if the knight agreed to a dull trip to the quarry just so he could get away from his family duties. Unlike Sir Ralph, he did not bring a squire to accompany him. Unlike Ralph, Geoffrey actually deserved to get beaten and tied up on the side of the road. And in his current condition, he paid less attention to the slaves than Ralph would have. Perhaps this switch would work to their benefit.

She dared not give in to the temptation of hope until the moment Geoffrey held out his arm and told them all to "Stop."

It was the first word he had spoken all day. Everyone stopped immediately, their breaths suspended in their throats.

Geoffrey pointed to a tree nearby. "We'll rest over there." He led the horses off the path and towards the tree.

Audrey's hopefulness struggled with a bout of fear. This was most certainly strange. Normally Ralph did not rest until they reached the quarry itself. No one felt particularly tired. To rest now, while they could still enjoy the coolness of morning, seemed altogether wasteful. Was it a trap of some sort? A method of testing them?

She watched in disbelief as Geoffrey tethered the horse to a branch, sat against the tree trunk, and promptly fell asleep.

Audrey moved to a safe distance with Rodgar and stared at the knight from afar.

"God is with us today," said Rodgar. "This is our chance to escape."

"I don't like it." Audrey scowled fiercely in Geoffrey's direction, just in case the knight watched them through cracked lids. "We should stick to the plan. I chose the gorge for a reason. No one would see us. Out here on the road..."

"We've seen only one other person this last mile! And we're close to the woods, where we hoped to go anyway. Don't be a fool again, Audrey. We are going to escape. And we are going to do it now."

"Rodgar—" She reached out to catch his sleeve, but he wrenched free of her grip.

He was already beckoning to the other boys, pointing to the satchel of food on the horse's saddle, and gathering what items he could. She didn't know what to do. She felt dizzy. She wanted to escape just as fiercely as any of them. But this seemed all wrong.

Her stomach flipped when she saw Rodgar pick up a large stick from the grass and approach Geoffrey with it. Rodgar wound the stick back and aimed for Geoffrey's head. She wanted to yell out at him, but that would only awaken Geoffrey. So she ran towards them.

She didn't really have a plan. She didn't know what she would do. She supposed it depended on how quickly she got there. If she reached them soon enough maybe she would stop Rodgar from delivering the blow. If she arrived too late for that, then maybe she would help him fight Geoffrey, for she strongly doubted that a blow to the head with a small tree branch would knock the man out.

But she arrived too late for either of those things. In his hastiness, Rodgar must have been too loud, or perhaps his foot nudged Geoffrey's leg, or maybe—as Audrey had feared—the knight had never really been asleep at all. Whatever the reason, Geoffrey awoke.

He kicked Rodgar in the leg, then stood up and grabbed both his arms.

While the two of them struggled, Audrey dashed around them and flattened herself against the back of the tree. She knew that Rodgar would not defeat the fearsome knight. As she waited, she glimpsed the rest of her companions standing idly by and watching in a state of petrified terror.

She looked around the tree far enough to see Geoffrey holding Rodgar in a deadlock, a knife to his captive's throat.

"Run if you wish," said Geoffrey to the others. Even through the strain of the knight's voice, Audrey detected a low thrum of pleasure. "I will not pursue you. I give you all your freedom, but at a price: the price of Rodgar's life."

Audrey's heart sank. She wanted to believe it was a bluff, but somehow she knew that it was not. Geoffrey knew Rodgar's name. He had been ready to make this offer. And he really did not care if they all ran away—not if he got Rodgar as a result. So was Rodgar all he wanted? Or did he get his thrill from playing this game and watching how the poor slaves reacted? Did he enjoy forcing them to weigh their freedom against the murder of their friend? Audrey didn't know what Geoffrey wanted most, and she didn't want to. All she knew was that this was a game to Geoffrey. And she refused to play by his rules.

Geoffrey looked around uncertainly. "Where is the girl?" he asked.

She reacted not a moment too soon. She reached out from behind the tree and grabbed the pommel of his sword. She pulled, and as he turned, she wrenched the blade free of its scabbard.

She wasn't thinking clearly. Geoffrey could have easily killed Rodgar while Audrey struggled to steal the sword, and he still could now that she stood wielding the heavy weapon. But he did not, and perhaps she had sensed this, too. To slit Rodgar's throat while one of his friends tried to rescue him would have ruined the game for Geoffrey. So he stayed his blade, clutching Rodgar close while staring at Audrey in a state of pure bewilderment.

Audrey knew nothing about sword-fighting. She wasn't much taller than the blade itself. She probably looked like an idiot holding the thing before her. But she also spent most of her days carrying rocks. Her muscles were strong, her stance steady, and her voice much more fearless than she felt as she snarled, "Just go ahead and try."

Geoffrey blinked a few times. His golden eyes looked her up and down. Then he did the most dreadful thing of all. He smiled.

"I've changed my mind," said the knight. He lowered his knife and relaxed his guard on Rodgar. "I'll take _you_."

Geoffrey shoved Rodgar away, but as Rodgar stumbled forward, he cried out in pain. A streak of blood flitted through the air. Rodgar staggered away, clutching his bloody arm to his chest. He stared in awe at his wound just as she did. Geoffrey had slashed Rodgar's wrist while releasing him.

Audrey's heart flapped inside her chest. She had really gotten herself in trouble now. What could she expect to do against this madman? Even if she wielded a sword and he just a dagger, she probably could not best him. And even if she did, what would she do to him? Stab him? Kill him? She had told her friends they could not afford to kill anyone, and she had meant it. Then again, this was Geoffrey...

"Everyone, get _out_ of here!" she cried. "Let me deal with this bastard."

She must have been convincing enough for some of them, who wanted nothing more than to get away from Geoffrey. She glimpsed some of the boys running off, and of this she was glad. But she also noticed Rodgar standing nearby, either debilitated by his wound or unwilling to abandon her, and of this she was also glad. She did not think all the courage she possessed would be enough to help her face Sir Geoffrey alone.

The knight's amber eyes blazed as he looked at her. A few times, his gaze flicked from his bloody knife and back to her again. This only seemed to make him more excited. "What's your name?" he asked her.

"Go to hell," she replied.

He moved towards her.

Her jab of the sword was awkward. She did not know what to do with it. But she knew she could stab him if she pushed hard enough, so push she did. He moved out of the way.

Geoffrey looked around to check on the state of her companions. Except for Rodgar, whose wrist bled profusely, the boys were escaping. His smug expression faltered. Perhaps he had not expected her companions to actually flee. If he'd had any sort of plan, it was crumbling before his eyes. "Call your friends back here," he growled, "or I will hunt each of them down myself."

"I don't think so," she snapped back at him. "I think you don't know what the hell you're doing. I think you knew we might try to flee today, but you thought you could restrain us all on your own. Now you realize we're too strong for you; we're willing to pay whatever price we must to get away from you and Richard's fucking castle. And you don't know what to do about it."

Geoffrey moved closer, clenching his knife until his knuckles turned white. "I know what I will do," he said. A sneer pulled at his lips. "It involves splitting your flesh with this blade."

He made his move then, but it was not what she expected.

His dagger flashed; she shifted her stance in a desperate attempt to block. But the knife did not fly towards her. Instead, Geoffrey plunged it into Rodgar's neck.

Audrey must have screamed then. Looking back later, she couldn't really say. She knew that the horizon seemed to tilt and the whole world turned black. Geoffrey's silhouette cast a shadow on the sun, his little sneer the only glint in the darkness. He shoved the knife deeper into Rodgar's throat. Rodgar died before her, his blood staining the sky in spurts, his lifeless body collapsing to the earth in a heap. She did not realize until that moment how greatly he had inspired her to escape in the first place. She did not think anything of the awkward kiss they had shared until a stream of blood poured over his lips.

The light faded from his eyes, and he became nothing more than an empty corpse, staring up at her with an expression of eternal surprise.

She dropped the sword. She nearly collapsed next to him. She had been foolish to do any of this. She never should have agreed to escape from Richard's castle. She never should have tried to put forth her own plan. She was a stupid slave, and always would be. She could not stand up to the Normans. And she certainly couldn't stand up to Geoffrey.

"There there, _ma jouet_." She felt his hands on her, cold and gripping. She felt his breath on her tears, sharp and icy. "Your death will not be so swift."

She felt the wet blade tickling her skin. She heard a deep roar in her ears. And at last she reacted.

She tasted metallic blood on her tongue before she realized she had his forearm in her teeth, squeezing with all her might. She heard the clang of his knife as he dropped it—listened to him cry out with pain. As he fell, she reached down and picked up a stone from the earth. It was large, but she could lift it high and fling it hard—hard enough that once it collided with Geoffrey's skull, he collapsed to the ground in a stupor.

Then she turned around and ran.

As she fled, she felt the grass lash her legs and the wind comb her hair. The shadows of the forest crept towards her, wrapping round her body like a demon's embrace. She didn't care what dark future awaited her anymore. Her anger filled her up and made her limbs thrum with energy. Geoffrey and all his Norman companions would pay for what they had done to her and her friends. And no matter how much they paid, it would not be enough. For if a slave's labor could not be paid for in coin, then she would recollect her dues in blood.

**

9

### Last Tales of Mercia 9:

### SIGURD THE GLEEMAN

(back to Table of Contents)

*

SHROPSHIRE

1058 A.D.

When Sigurd glimpsed the Norman castle on the hill ahead of him, dismay filled his heart and brought him to a stop.

More of the castle had been turned into stone than the last time he'd seen it. Wooden palisades still covered a few sections, but rocks and mortar formed most of the curtain wall spreading out from the gatehouse. A tall stone keep sprouted out from the back of the motte and bailey formation, and though a few men still worked on the top level, the tower looked nearly complete. Sigurd knew that Lord Richard FitzScrob had faced plenty of setbacks since his arrival in Engla-lond, whether from his own tenants, Welsh raids, or that rambunctious Outlaw a few years ago. But if any foes decided to go against Lord Richard now, they would have a very hard time of it.

Sigurd wondered how fun it might be to live and work in a place like that.

Then he looked down at himself and considered how ridiculous he looked. For the first time in years, he had dressed in one of his favorite outfits from his days as a royal minstrel. His hose were red on one leg and yellow on the other. Flamboyant yellow embroidery flowed up the sleeves and seams of his red tunic. The clothes were a little loose on him, for he had lost a bit of weight since moving to Shrewsbury, even though he had little weight to lose to begin with. He hoped his tightened belt hid the sagging cloth well enough, but he couldn't say for sure. Meanwhile he'd trimmed his beard down so that his golden hair surrounded only his lips and chin, leaving the sides of the jaw bare. He had covered his ear-length hair with a little green cap topped with a feather.

Two Norman soldiers walked past him on the road. They paused their conversation to turn and stare at him. They said something to each other in Norman and laughed uproariously. Sigurd understood the language, but purposefully kept himself from interpreting it. He didn't need to, anyway. He knew the truth. He looked like an idiot, and he had been a fool to walk all the way from Shrewsbury with the hope that Lord Richard FitzScrob might hire him as a minstrel.

Once the soldiers passed, Sigurd tore off his cap and flung it into the road. Then he slung his little harp over his shoulder, turned around, and walked back the way he had come.

Who was he trying to fool? He was not a minstrel anymore. Sure, he could sing a few songs and tell plenty of naughty riddles. He could put up with a certain amount of humiliation for the sake of entertaining the audience. But there was more to being a gleeman than just a little song and dance, which most people did not realize. Being a minstrel for rich lords meant listening to their intimate conversations when he wasn't putting on a show for them. It meant knowing a great deal about the local politics, and it meant that a lot of people would foolishly trust him with their secrets because they considered him unimportant. To the contrary, he might also have to provide counsel to those he served in their most desperate moments, for when they tired of listening to the drivel of their courtly peers, they would turn to the unassuming gleeman for advice.

Sigurd had experienced this with every lord he ever served. He knew more about King Canute and Lord Goodwin than he would ever tell anyone, even though both of them were now dead. The gleeman's secret was that he acted like a fool and most people thought of him as such, but in actuality, he could endure degradation because he understood the gravity of his own existence.

At least, he once had. But he had also grown very weary of it. He despised the greed and blood-lust of most the lords he encountered. He hated holding secrets, particularly from people he cared about. And he tired of carrying the responsibility of knowledge. He had never wanted any of that. He had become a minstrel only for the sake of entertaining people. And he could no longer comfort himself with the notion that he was important, for he wasn't. That would be the biggest joke of all. Once upon a time he listened in on King Canute's most intimate conversations, but now he was no more than poor Saxon churl, living in the back country of rural Engla-lond.

"Excuse me. Is this yours?"

Sigurd turned with a start, wiping his eyes. To his embarrassment, a teardrop had begun to form on his lashes. But he discarded the evidence quickly and faced the stranger with a well-practiced smile.

His eyes took a moment to adjust to the brightness of the sun behind the stranger's shoulder. Once they did, Sigurd's smile shifted into an expression of surprise. The man walking towards him was exceptionally handsome. His chiseled features were simply stunning in their perfection, from the sharp edge of his nose to the flowing eyebrows over his dark hazel eyes. The square shape of his jaw accentuated the pink softness of his lips. He seemed impeccably clean and incredibly rich, from his bright blue linens to the embroidered saddle of the horse he led behind him. His yellow hair flowed in a swoop past his ears and shone like gold in the sunlight.

Sigurd realized that he had been staring for far too long and blinked in a desperate attempt to dispel the man's image. He forced his attention onto the little green cap in the stranger's hand.

"Oh, er, yes, I suppose it is." Sigurd reached out and swiped the cap quickly, as if afraid their hands might touch. He dusted it off and stuffed it under his arm. Then he bowed low, mostly in an effort to hide from the man's piercing gaze. Without thinking, he fell into his practiced gesture of twisting his legs dramatically and extending one arm with a flourish. "My thanks to you."

"I don't think I've seen a cap like that before." The man spoke before Sigurd had a chance to escape.

"I imagine not. I had it uniquely made."

"I see. Where are you from?"

Sigurd straightened enough to notice the man smiling. Did he find Sigurd funny, already? Sigurd did not like amusing people unintentionally. "Wiltshire, once upon a time," the minstrel said sourly.

"Forgive me. I did not mean to pry. But you seem like an interesting man, and I could use some interesting conversation after my very dull visit with Lord Richard."

"Oh?" Sigurd glanced back at the castle, wondering what business the two had with each other.

"Would you care to walk with me? We seem to be going the same direction."

Sigurd did not feel particularly sociable, but he could not deny that he found this man intriguing, as well. And good company usually lifted his spirits. "Very well."

They walked in silence for a time, watching the fields roll by on either side of them. The sun fell to their backs, casting long shadows in front of them. Sigurd wondered if he was crazy for thinking that even this man's shadow looked handsome.

"I am Alfric Cild, of the Wenlock."

"It is nice to meet you, Lord Alfric." Sigurd struggled to hide his growing embarrassment, for he had heard of Lord Alfric, and he also knew that Lord Alfric was probably the richest thegn in Shropshire. "My name is Sigurd."

Another silence threatened to stretch on, but Alfric wouldn't let it. "What do you think of Richard's castle?"

"It is not unimpressive. A true hearth-shield, one might say. Lord Richard is no hapless farmer."

Alfric laughed, then glanced pointedly at the case on Sigurd's back. "Are you a gleeman?"

"Of a sort." Sigurd sighed. He might as well tell the truth. He refused to be like his friend Godric, who tried to keep his past locked in a chest where he could forget its existence. "I once roamed far and wide as a minstrel. But I confess, ever since I moved to Shrewsbury, I have found little use for my skills."

"That is a shame."

Sigurd shrugged. "I left that life for a reason. Plucking the strings of my harp is one thing; dancing on the strings of politics is quite another."

"If that is true, why are you walking on the road with your harp?"

Sigurd could not conjure a graceful answer. The silence confirmed Lord Alfric's doubt.

"If you are looking for work, I could certainly use a good gleeman," Alfric continued.

Sigurd gulped, and once again answered with silence.

"Come to my manor at least once and let me see what you can do. I'll reward you with good food and coin for your troubles." The lord moved suddenly closer, his strong hand closing on Sigurd's shoulder. "And don't pretend you wouldn't enjoy it."

Flames rushed to Sigurd's cheeks. What did Alfric mean by that? His body trembled and he was sure that Alfric noticed. But the lord just smiled, his hand brushing Sigurd's face ever so slightly as he lifted it. "I will take no refusal. Come in a fortnight, on Woden's day. I'll have a feast prepared in your honor." Alfric gave him directions, then climbed upon his horse.

"You won't regret it, Sigurd." With a lash of his reins, the lord was away, as swiftly as a passing dream.

*

Sigurd looked forward to visiting Lord Alfric. But as a lonely week passed, he began to wonder if he had imagined the whole encounter in a state of desperation. He could not believe that a lord as rich as Alfric would extend that invitation to such a poor churl as Sigurd had become. And if Sigurd had still possessed some dignity on the day he met Alfric, the last of it crumbled another week later.

One morning, he awoke to discover that his meager little orchard—his prime source of sustenance and trading over the last few years—had been infected by a host of little green bugs. They ate at the leaves and stems of his plants with little tubed mouths and caused the leaves to curl and wither. He had dealt with the bugs before, but never seen so many of them at once. No matter how many he caught and killed, more seemed to arise from the soil. He had searched his home frantically for some tool to help catch them, but only succeeded in making a mess.

Searching his cabin for something useful had proved to be an utterly futile and demoralizing task. When he moved to Shrewsbury many years ago, he had brought with him a great number of trinkets and souvenirs from his life as a royal minstrel. At the time he had treasured them, and thought they would impress anyone who saw them. He had glass vials of foreign spices, little carvings and statues of pagan gods, fine fabrics of intricate embroidery, candelabras, and all other sorts of useless possessions. For only when he had started living a humble life here in Shrewsbury, tending a garden and trying his hand at various crafts, did he realize that almost everything from his past livelihood was indeed useless here in this one.

None of his old trinkets from royal life would help him with a host of little green bugs.

By the end of the day he realized he had damaged some of the plants and the tender soil just by his desperate attempts to catch the insects, and that hardly compared to the deluge of destruction caused by the bugs themselves. He had made a mess of his home and a mess of himself. His clothes were filthy, his hands and face covered with soil. He had collapsed in bed that way after attempting to quell his bad temper with an unusual amount of mead.

When he awoke that morning, he could not find the will to get up until several hours later. He did not want to face his failure yet again. He did not want to spend another day searching the soil for bugs and then squashing them. He did not particularly want to do anything. And so he laid there, staring up at the turf roof of his cabin, which was also in need of repair.

Then someone knocked on his door.

Sigurd got up and moved towards it in a state of disbelief. Who could be visiting him at a time like this and why? In any case, it didn't matter. Nothing seemed to matter anymore.

But when Sigurd opened the door and saw Godric grinning on the other side of it, he blanched. "Godric?"

The smile on Godric's face faltered. Apparently, he had highly anticipated surprising Sigurd with a visit. Sigurd's heart sank, for he saw Godric smile so rarely. When Godric smiled, his entire demeanor changed. He ceased to be a disgruntled warrior and looked like a younger man full of vigor and hope for the future. Each look suited him in his own way, but Sigurd cursed the fact he had carelessly ruined what should have been a wonderful moment.

"Have I come at a bad time?" asked Godric.

"Er, no. Well, I just ..." Sigurd cleared his throat and glanced back into his cabin. Doing so only made him shut the door farther. "I just didn't expect you. Why have you come?"

Godric looked around, shifting awkwardly on a feet. Sigurd cursed himself again. He just kept making the situation worse. Why did Godric have to make a surprise visit today of all days? "I, uh, just felt like seeing you. But I suppose I should go."

"No, Godric, wait."

Godric was already turning around. Sigurd reached out and grabbed his hand desperately. Godric looked up with surprise. Sigurd couldn't tell whether he looked more pleased or annoyed. With Godric, who could ever say?

Sigurd released his hand. He realized his heart was pounding at a ridiculous pace. His mouth felt dry but he managed to form a few more words, nonetheless. "Listen, my home is a mess. Give me just a moment to clean up, won't you?"

Godric hesitated, his eye peering curiously through the cracked door. Then he nodded.

With a breath of relief, Sigurd closed the door and turned to face the sad state of his cabin.

He tried his best to fold his fabrics and put them back in place, to stand up his figurines and straighten the precious pages of his personal poetry. Then he splashed his hands and face in a bowl of water, already dirty from the day before. He dressed in a relatively clean tunic and attempted to tame his short blond hair with his fingers. Most of all, he tried desperately to find his normal spirits amidst his suffocating mood of depression. He opened the window shutters and dusted off a candelabra to set on his table. Then he took a deep breath and returned to the door.

With a bright smile on his face, he swept open the door and said, "Do come in."

Perhaps he overdid it. Godric frowned as he entered, his eye searching Sigurd's home for some clue to Sigurd's temperament as he made his way inside.

"Please, have a seat at my table! It's so rare I get a friendly visit from you, Godric—other than your annual visit with Edric of course. I really am pleased you came. Can I give you something to eat or drink? I'm afraid I'm fresh out of my famous celery and cheese, but—"

Godric turned and stared at him. Sigurd gulped. Despite everything they had been through together, he could not help but be a little intimidated by the fierce blue eye of the Kingslayer when he was unhappy. "What's going on, Sigurd?"

"N-nothing."

"Why were you so unhappy to see me? Have I done something wrong?"

Sigurd found Godric's self-consciousness touching. But he shook his head. "Of course not. I admit, er, I was a little worried you might be coming to collect rent, and it seemed a little early for that. But otherwise ..."

"Would that have been a problem? Are you low on money?"

"Well... well... well yes." Sigurd hated to admit it. But he also felt a flare of anger deep in his gut, and for a moment he didn't know why. "I will get you the rent, don't you worry about that."

"I'm not worried about that. I'm worried about you."

"Oh really?" Sigurd gave him sardonic smile. "I don't know whether to be flattered or embarrassed."

"Sigurd ..." Godric seemed to realize that he had done something to hurt Sigurd's feelings, but he couldn't figure out what. Even Sigurd didn't know what, at first. Not until he stood there watching the concern distort Godric's normally stalwart face and realized it came far too late.

"If you're so worried about me, why don't you visit more often?" Like many words today, the question seemed to burst unbidden from his mouth. But once it was out in the open, he decided not to regret it. He had waited too long to ask such a question. He had hoped too long for Godric to take some sort of initiative and his patience had been rewarded with nothing but disappointment. "I am going to ask you again, and I want you to answer more honestly. Why did you come to visit today?"

"I... I just felt like seeing you."

"Why did you feel like seeing me?"

Godric's face darkened. "Why does it matter?" A growl of anger encroached on his voice. For some reason, Sigurd was glad. He was glad he could arouse Godric to feel something. "I didn't have many chores to do. Osgifu and Edric went to town on an errand. So... I was bored."

"You were bored." Sigurd laughed dryly.

"If you are lonely, then you should get a wife."

Sigurd scoffed.

Godric's frown deepened. His fist clenched, bunching the muscles of his arm. "Anyway, you visit me all the time. I thought you wouldn't mind if I visited you."

Sigurd straightened and pushed back his hair with a flourish of his long fingers. "And you hoped that I might entertain you."

"You're not acting like yourself, Sigurd." Godric gnashed his jaws. "I don't know what you want from me."

"I don't know what I want from you either." Sigurd sighed wearily, his sardonic grin waning. He did know what he wanted from Godric. He also knew he was foolish for thinking he might ever obtain it. "I don't know what I must have expected, moving here with you."

"Maybe ... I can help." The hope in Godric's voice sounded forced. He also seemed desperate to hasten away from whatever confession Sigurd had been close to making. "If you're having a problem with your garden, I might be able to fix it. Remember, I know a few things about gardening."

"More than how to poison a man with a flower?" Sigurd regretted his sour attempt at humor as soon as he saw Godric's face darken. "I'm sorry, you're right. You probably can help. I don't know why I didn't say so as soon as you arrived," he lied.

So they walked out to Sigurd's garden, and Godric inspected the problem from every possible angle. To Sigurd's surprise, he walked far past the orchard into the field to find the source of the bugs.

"Capsids," said Godric, and pointed to some old logs and weeds in the field. "They often hatch out of sticks and hedges. We need to keep the field around your garden a bit cleaner." Without further ado, Godric reached down and picked up one of the rotting logs and slung it over his shoulder. "We'll burn this, if we can," he said. "If there are still any eggs or babies inside, the fire will kill them. We'll build a fire of all the debris we find near the garden. If I'm right, the smoke will also help agitate the bugs and bring them out in the open." Then he walked off with the log in tow.

Sigurd scrambled to keep up with him, selecting a few smaller sticks to dispose of. After that they pulled out weeds and creeping hedges, which were also an attraction to the loathsome creatures.

Together they cleaned the field, then built a fire downwind of the orchard. Sigurd felt completely disgusting by then, for he had watched many of the little bugs—some of them red and brownish—scurry out of the wood and a few times onto his skin. Even after he had flapped his clothes violently, he still imagined them crawling all over his body.

Once the smoke drifted over the plants, more of the capsids flew and jumped about. Sigurd could hardly believe the thickness of the swarm that revealed itself.

"I suppose a lot of the eggs were on your plants themselves," said Godric. "You might want to wash more of the stems during the winter to keep this from happening next time."

Sigurd glowered. While he appreciated Godric's help, he felt increasingly mortified by his own lack of knowledge about gardening. He had considered himself a decent gardener after a few years of scraping by successfully, but perhaps he had mostly gotten lucky. Godric, on the other hand, had been trained as a boy by monks in orchards much bigger than this one.

He saw Godric peeling off his tunic and throwing the cloth to the ground. Godric pulled out his ruby-hilted knife and held it with a firm grip before him. Delight gleamed in his eye as a sneer pulled up his lips. "Let's kill those fucking capsids," he snarled, and dashed forward.

"Don't hurt my plants!" cried Sigurd, running after him.

Yesterday, he had felt disgusted and even guilty every time he crushed one of the bugs to death. With Godric, he couldn't help but take delight in the chase. Every death of the little green capsids felt like a tiny victory. Through the haze of drifting smoke and the blurring swarm of insects, he imagined he was in the thick of a battle. And it was a great deal more fun than real battle might have been.

"Got you!" cried Godric, plunging his dagger into the soil before him. Sigurd turned to see whether Godric had actually managed to impale one of the bugs on his blade. Crouched and shirtless, his light brown hair scattered about his shoulders, Godric looked positively feral.

A moment later, a green bug flew from the soil and away from Godric's dagger.

"What!" Godric was shocked. "I had the bastard!"

Unable to help himself, Sigurd burst out laughing.

"Something funny?" Godric snarled, revealing a flash of white teeth.

"Oh Godric, you know you can't aim at anything to save your own life."

For a moment, he worried he had hurt Godric's feelings. Then the Kingslayer smiled and let out a chuckle despite himself. The two of them laughed freely into the bug-infested smoke.

Together they killed capsids and burned old logs until late in the afternoon. Then they realized that the sky had darkened more than they noticed from within the smoke and firelight. They stood by the dying embers of the fire and looked at the sad remains of Sigurd's withered garden.

"I'm sorry if I damaged a few of your plants," said Godric guiltily.

"Never mind." Sigurd sighed and turned away from the sorry sight. "Let's go inside and get you some food."

Sigurd served a meager dinner of cabbage, carrots, and leek stew. He got out some fine wine he had been saving and hoped this helped make up for the meal's blandness. He lit the candelabra in the middle of the table and briefly felt proud of his humble abode.

Godric was very hungry. He ate and drank quickly, as if he had forgotten about doing anything else. Sigurd watched him in a state of helpless fascination. It felt so strange to have Godric sitting alone at his table, eating his food and sharing Sigurd's company—especially with no shirt on. It seemed very unreal, like something out of a dream, and Sigurd wanted to enjoy every moment of it. He appreciated Godric's absorption in the meal, for that kept Godric from noticing Sigurd's growing discomfort.

As Godric finished eating, Sigurd hastened to avoid an awkward silence, even though his own food sat unfinished. "You have dirt all over you," Sigurd pointed out. "Let me wash some of it off."

He stood and made his way over to a bucket of water. This was fresh water, saved for drinking, but Sigurd decided to use some of it anyway. It wouldn't do to use dirty water on an occasion like this. He grabbed a bowl and a rag and made his way to Godric, afraid to look him in the eye. Godric sat very still, one hand gripping the edge of the table. He looked rather tense considering all the wine he had imbibed.

Sigurd dipped the rag in water and wrung it out. His hand trembled as he brought the wet rag to Godric's neck. Perhaps he was being foolish. Perhaps he was going too far. But he also knew he would regret it later if he did not take advantage of such a rare chance as this one.

Godric flinched as the cold cloth touched his skin.

"Sorry," murmured Sigurd. Then he resumed brushing the rag down Godric's throat. Drops of water spilled from the rag and rolled down his chest, collecting dirt and leaving trails of clean rivulets. As Sigurd watched, he realized that Godric seemed to stop breathing. The rag had lingered far too long on Godric's neck.

Godric reached up and grabbed Sigurd's wrist. The rag fell from Sigurd's hand and squelched against the floor. Godric stood and turned to face him. Sigurd winced from the tightness of his grip, but dared not pull away. He looked up and met Godric's stare, even though doing so made his heart pound with terror. He wondered if he had ever seen Godric look at him so intently before.

"Sigurd, I ..." Godric took a deep breath, his face distorting with uncertainty.

"Yes?"

"I should go." He released Sigurd's hand and turned to gather his tunic. He faced away from Sigurd as he pulled it back over his shoulders.

"Godric, it's dark out." His disappointment fought with his anger. "If you didn't intend to stay the night, why didn't you go home sooner?"

"Sigurd. Don't be a fool!"

The word cut Sigurd to his core. His breath stopped as Godric stormed from the cabin and slammed the door behind him. He crumbled to the floor and remained there, the wet rag cold against his fingers. He wondered if a fool was all he really was, and all he ever would be.

*

Lord Alfric possessed the nicest estate Sigurd had visited in a very long while. The town and surrounding fields of Wenlock were astonishingly beautiful, full of gnarled old trees that whispered in the breeze, bright purple flowers that glowed in the sunlight, and silvery limestone rocks that formed an escarpment along the road. On the lands of Alfric's manor, long stretches of golden or green fields could be seen wherever one looked, save for a wild forest that flanked the buildings of the manor. Far in the distance one could spot the large hill called the Wrekin. Amidst such a long stretch of plains, the large hill looked somehow god-like, as if some important force of nature had put it there for a divine purpose. Sigurd smiled to himself, thinking of a story that might entertain Lord Alfric.

The manor itself boasted a lavish dining hall, full of beautiful tapestries, freshly strewn rushes, sparkling candelabras, and a sweet fire of burning cherry wood. Alfric had not been lying about a feast, either. Sigurd could not remember the last time he saw so much food on a table, save for his last visit to the Lundenburg palace. He tried to keep himself from drooling at the bowls of plums and cherries, platters of fowl and roasted pig, honeyed bread and even a bowl of salt. What further surprised him was that he and Alfric were the only two people around to eat it.

"I must admit," said Sigurd. "When you said you would prepare a feast, I expected a lot more participants!"

Alfric smiled as he took a seat at the head of the table. He motioned for Sigurd to take the chair just next to him. "Now that would be foolish of me," said the lord, "to hire a minstrel for a large audience when I had not yet seen his performance."

Sigurd blushed self-consciously as he sat. He had not meant to sound presumptuous. But when he saw the kind smile on Alfric's face, he realized the lord was just toying with him.

"Would you like me to play something now, my lord?"

"Please, no need for that yet. Have something to eat first."

Sigurd gladly helped himself to the food, but grew impatient for his inevitable performance as a minstrel. In truth, he both feared and looked forward to it. He didn't know whether he would be so out of practice that he'd make a fool of himself, or whether all of his old habits would come back to him naturally and make him feel like his old self again. More than anything, he just wanted to get it all over with.

He also felt rather intimidated by the largeness of the hall and its relative lack of activity. Save for one servant who walked in and out of the room to refill their goblets, not another person was in sight. The only sounds to be heard were the crackling of the fire and the chink of the two men's dishware.

"Does your family live here with you?"

"My only family is my brothers, sisters, and ancestors," said Alfric. "So... no."

"I see." Sigurd studied him curiously. "And you said you are of the Cild family. Should I take that to mean you are a relative of Eadric Streona?"

Alfric stiffened. Considering that Eadric Streona was remembered as the grandest traitor of the century, this could hardly be taken as a compliment. "He was my uncle. What of it?"

"Please, I will not hold it against you." Sigurd laughed despite himself. "It so happens that my own dearest friend is the bastard son of Eadric Streona. Thegn Godric. I am surprised you two don't know each other."

"I know of him." Alfric frowned. "I do not care for the rumors about him. I heard from Goodwin himself that Godric helped kill Harold Harefoot, so I know that much is true. A nasty business, all of it."

"Yes, very nasty." Sigurd could not help but be amused by Alfric's reaction. The handsome lord had a perfect home, a pristine appearance, and a flawless array of food. No doubt he liked everything in his life to be nice and orderly. The way his lip curled at the thought of a murder made him somewhat less intimidating and a little bit adorable.

For the second time, Sigurd allowed himself to admire Alfric's simultaneously masculine and beautiful appearance. He wore a tunic that opened low beneath his neck, revealing a soft flush of golden hairs across his chest. The short sleeves allowed a generous view of his arms, sloping from his broad shoulders to the table. Unlike Godric, this man's skin was pure and free of imperfections such as scars. His muscles were softer, elegantly curved from his forearms to his hands. He had exceptional hands, thick and robust, the sharp edges decorated with flowing veins as if with fine embroidery.

Sigurd looked back up and noticed Alfric staring back at him. The knowing smile he returned sent Sigurd's heart fluttering.

"I, uh... I wonder if you've heard the story of the Wrekin?" asked Sigurd quickly. "That lovely hill, just beyond your doorstep?"

"Well, I suppose I haven't heard your version of it." Alfric bit down on a juicy cherry.

"Then I must certainly enlighten you," said Sigurd. "For you may not know this, but in Wales, amongst the towering mountains and jagged cliffs, there lives a particularly mean race of giants."

"Oh does there?" Alfric leaned back in his chair and folded his hands before him, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"There does indeed," said Sigurd. "The reeve of Shrewsbury many years ago did not know about the giants of Wales, either. This reeve was a greedy man who seized lands and riches wherever he could, and when he ran out of opportunities in his local country, he decided to venture into Wales for some plundering."

"Sounds a bit like my own uncle, Eadric Streona," chuckled Alfric.

"Certainly, the two were not unlike. In fact, I wonder if this reeve was one of Eadric's own ancestors. In any case, the reeve ventured far enough into Wales that he ran into one of the great mountain giants. The giant guarded a great treasure, but while he was sleeping, the reeve of Shrewsbury stole away with it! When the giant awoke he was furious. He chased the reeve and his men a short way but lost track of them in the thick of the forests. For a time he was despondent and didn't know what to do without his treasure. So the giant turned to vengeance as a cure for his sadness. He took a great shovel and scooped out a big pile of earth with it. Then he made for Shrewsbury. He knew that Shrewsbury depended on the River Severn for its water, so the giant planned to dump the earth into the river and dam it up forever.

"Unfortunately for the giant, the path to Shrewsbury was longer than he expected. He felt very exhausted by the time he reached the lands of Wellington just near here. Out of breath, he asked a local blacksmith, 'How far to Shrewsbury?' The blacksmith could see that the giant meant trouble, and he worried what the giant would do once he got there. Even though Shrewsbury was not so far away, the blacksmith replied, 'You've days and days to go yet!'

"So the giant let out a cry of rage and dumped the earth onto the plains just before him. Then he turned around and stormed back home. This pile of earth became the known as the Wrekin, and there it has remained ever since."

Alfric grinned from ear to ear and dabbed his lips with a cloth. "If only I had known I lived next to a giant's own dirt-heap. I would be charging my tenants higher rent!"

Alfric's pleasure made Sigurd's heart swell with satisfaction. He had pieced his own version of the story together on the spot, having heard various Northmen speak of the hill in such a fashion. Maybe he had not lost his talents, after all. "Perhaps my lord would like to hear a song as he finishes his meal?"

"Very well." Alfric leaned forward to take a slow sip of wine. "Play me something, Sigurd."

Sigurd happily complied, getting up from the table and taking hold of his harp. He set the small instrument against his shoulder and considered what to play.

"Something romantic," said Alfric.

Sigurd's cheeks warmed, but he could not resist a small smile as his fingers plucked the first string.

Playing the tune brought him bittersweet memories. Perhaps he only considered the song romantic because he had played it while on a journey south with Godric. Godric had been very happy at the time, perhaps as happy as Sigurd had ever seen him—other than when he was with his Osgifu. Godric had been on his way to visit Canute's deathbed, and little filled him with more joy than that. Sigurd remembered one particular night when Sigurd had played this song in an inn and Godric sat watching from a table. There had been something in Godric's eye that night, a depth of affection Sigurd had never seen there before.

Later on, as they lay in their beds, Godric had asked, "Don't you hope to find a woman and settle down sometime, Sigurd?"

"Oh, I've found a few good women." He had hesitated, his heart hammering against his ribs. He thought Godric would not have asked that question without a reason. "And a few men as well, I might add. More of the latter ... in fact."

Godric had not risen to the bait; in fact he had said nothing at all. Sigurd should have known he would not. Godric could be such a blind damn fool. He would not even let himself think of the possibility that he might ever find solace in—

A string of his harp twanged as he felt something brush the back of his arm. In the midst of his reverie, he had failed to notice Alfric's approach. Alfric's hands gripped his arms, then worked their way down to the harp.

Sigurd's fingers froze over the shivering strings. Alfric took another step forward, closing the distance between them, his chest pressing against Sigurd's back. Then he pried the harp from Sigurd's hands and set it down on the table.

"You play very well." Alfric's whisper tickled the skin of Sigurd's neck. "But you know that's not the only reason I asked you here."

Alfric's arms closed around him. His lips brushed the side of Sigurd's chin. Sigurd did not know how to react, at first. It had been such a long time since anyone showed him such affection. The truth was that he hungered for it more than he cared to admit. He wanted to melt into Alfric's arms then and there. He practically did. But he found the strength to turn around and meet the lord's gaze, all while tasting his tantalizing breath against his lips.

Had he intended to say something? He could no longer remember. In any case, Alfric did not give him a chance to speak. Alfric leaned forward and kissed him, his strong hands wrapping round Sigurd's back, his thigh pressing between Sigurd's legs. Sigurd's head spun. He felt incredible. He felt as if he could float up from the earth and into the sky. And yet...

"Is something wrong?" Alfric pulled back, leaving Sigurd wanting more. But while the rich lord embraced him, Sigurd had remained very still, offering little response. His eyes lowered with shame. "Is there someone else?" Alfric pressed.

"No. Well ..." Sigurd shook his head with frustration. "This is just happening a bit fast."

"Forgive me." To Sigurd's surprise and regret, Alfric withdrew and turned away. "I must seem rather forward. But I have been... alone, for quite awhile."

"I understand." Sigurd blushed again, his cheeks practically stinging with heat. "All the more reason to take this slowly." His fingers played with the edge of Alfric's tunic. "Though I admit I'm tempted not to."

Alfric smiled and pressed forward again. "You have nothing to fear."

"Please." With great reluctance, Sigurd pushed him back. "Not yet."

Alfric sighed and pulled away from him completely. He took a moment to straighten his tunic and brush back his hair. "I would be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed." Then he handed over a small pouch of coins. As Sigurd took them, Alfric winked. "But I am intrigued by your performance. Until next time, minstrel."

"Yes," said Sigurd. "Indeed."

*

He didn't know what he would say. God forbid he do anything more stupid than he already had. But Sigurd needed to find some manner of closure for his feelings, however he might obtain it.

So here he stood on Godric's doorstep, delaying the moment he must knock on the door.

"Uncle Sig!"

Sigurd gave a start of surprise, then turned with a gladdened heart to see Edric coming towards him. Godric's son was growing faster than Sigurd could believe. At fifteen years of age, the boy had developed a slender but wiry figure and a head of thick, cherry-red hair. Even as a teenager, the boy had not lost his brazen cheerfulness. Sigurd was also glad Edric had not dropped his childhood habit of calling Sigurd 'Uncle' even though they weren't related. Without any hesitation, he fell upon Sigurd with a breath-wrenching hug.

"Oh!" Sigurd marveled at the boy's strength as he struggled to hug him back. "Hello, Edric."

Edric pulled back, his face beaming with delight. "You've come at a good time, Uncle Sig. I went hunting yesterday and killed two fat pheasants—while they were flying! We're having some for the night meal, and we have plenty to spare."

"Thank you, Edric. You must be very good with a bow. But actually, I came to see Godric. I need to give him my rent."

Edric frowned. "Rent was due last week."

"Yes, well—funny thing—your father never came by to collect it."

"Oh." Edric scratched at his red curls, then shifted anxiously on his feet. "Listen, Sig, maybe you should just leave it here with me. Father's been in... one of his moods. For quite a few days now."

"I see." Sigurd's stomach churned nervously. He mustn't back down now. "I can handle him, Edric. I've seen him at his worst, I assure you."

"Very well." Edric motioned to the other side of the dining hall. "He's out back. Chopping wood."

Sigurd nodded and reluctantly made his way onward.

He found Godric swinging his axe into a very large log, next to a pile that already looked large enough to get several families through the winter. Sigurd approached slowly, hoping that Godric still had extra-sharp hearing, for he did not particularly feel like announcing himself. He stood and waited for a long while, wresting his pouch of coins between his hands, hoping to make some extra noise in any way possible.

Godric finally stopped, breathing heavily and refusing to turn around. "What do you want, Edric?"

"Godric, it's me."

Godric stiffened but remained facing away, his grip tightening on his axe.

"I've, er, brought the rent. I also brought you some celery from my garden. It's still in poor shape, but I managed to rummage a few—"

Godric threw down his axe and turned around. He advanced on Sigurd so hastily that the minstrel nearly fled in terror. Even if he had chosen to, he would not have had the chance, for Godric took hold of his tunic with an iron grip and wrenched him closer.

The Kingslayer was not wearing his eyepatch. Sigurd tried not to blanch at the sight of the right socket of Godric's face, a gaping pit of scars and folded flesh. He knew Godric all too well. He knew that a reaction of disgust was exactly what Godric wanted. It would continue to feed Godric's anger. And so long as he felt anger, he was protected from feeling anything else.

"You've got balls coming to me with rent," snarled Godric, "when everyone knows you've gone to another lord with your loyalty."

"Everyone knows?" Sigurd felt himself growing paler. "I suppose word gets around about a man like Alfric. It's true that I have become his minstrel. But I have no plans yet of moving, or anything like—"

Godric shook him so hard his teeth rattled. "Don't lie to me."

"Get your hands off me!" With more strength than he knew he possessed, Sigurd wrenched free of Godric's grip. Godric reached after him, but after a small struggle Sigurd broke free once more and staggered a few steps away. To his own surprise, he had drawn his dagger in the midst of the scuffle, and now held it out before him. His heart was pounding with unusual ferocity, his breath ragged. "You'll not touch me like that again, Godric, or you'll very well regret it."

The anger on Godric's face cracked, revealing the hurt and betrayal underneath. "Sigurd ..."

"What do you care who I am to Lord Alfric? I will keep paying you rent until I choose to do otherwise. I will take up whatever occupation I like in the meantime."

"I thought you liked gardening."

Sigurd almost wanted to laugh, but the desperation in Godric's voice made him too sad. "I only chose gardening because I knew you could help me with it. But I'm not a gardener, Godric. And I'm not a simple churl who lives just to pay his rent. I need more than that in my life. Perhaps I thought that so long as I followed you ..." His voice cracked. "Perhaps I believed that wherever you might be, I would find enough excitement to keep me happy. But I was wrong about that. And I was wrong to expect... so much of you."

Godric looked down, but he failed to hide the sorrow in his gaze. Sigurd lowered his dagger. The emotion wrenching Godric's voice surprised him. "I'm sorry, Sigurd."

Godric stepped forward, then hesitated, looking at Sigurd's knife. Hands trembling, Sigurd sheathed it.

Slowly, Godric opened his arms and wrapped Sigurd inside them.

For awhile, Sigurd was afraid to move. He wanted to relish the feeling of Godric holding him—no violence in his arms, no spite in his grip—and he feared doing something to ruin it. He breathed deeply of Godric's scent, then leaned further against him, tentatively embracing him back.

"I'm sorry," Godric repeated.

"Oh ..." Sigurd to blink back the prick of tears against his eyes. He didn't know if they were tears of joy or regret. "I forgive you, Kingslayer."

Godric released him and withdrew, still unable to look at him.

Sigurd laughed sadly, glad Godric could not see the state of his own expression. "I hope this means you'll still surprise me with a visit every once in awhile."

Godric shifted uncertainly, then dared look back up. The slightest smirk lifted his lips. "If you have bugs—or anything else—in need of killing, you just let me know."

"Oh, I hope not." Sigurd handed over his pouch of rent, and as Godric reached for it, Sigurd clasped his hand firmly. "I hope not."

Then the both of them laughed, and Sigurd decided that all the disappointment of the last few years had been worth it, after all.

**

10

### Last Tales of Mercia 10:

### OSBERN THE SON

(back to Table of Contents)

*

SHROPSHIRE

1058 A.D.

The stone keep of Richard's castle was finished, and Richard planned a great feast in honor of its construction.

Osbern could not remember ever feeling as excited about anything as he felt about the upcoming feast. At last, he would be able to invite people to his home and allow them to enjoy the comforts of the castle. Everyone would witness his father's achievement and celebrate its glory alongside him. Perhaps they would finally appreciate the greatness of his Norman heritage and realize that it deserved respect. Even the Saxon slaves could bask in their accomplishment and find respite now that they'd finished their work.

And yet as he rode through the town of Shrewsbury, he had a great deal of trouble getting other people excited.

"Free food for all of you!" he cried until his voice became hoarse. "Come to Richard's castle on Sun's day after church to celebrate its completion. Who will be there?"

The people of the streets responded with silence. Most did not even look at him. The few that did had frowns on their faces and looked away quickly.

This should have been a thriving market day, full of baskets of fish, bowls of vegetables, the flash of coins, and fresh honeyed bread. Here on the slopes of Shrewsbury, only a few buildings away from the towering stronghold, should have been the busiest spot of all. Osbern had expected to smell a dozen flavors of food and flowers, hopefully overpowering the stench of cow shit and fresh wool. He had thought he might even be able to hear the minstrel who sometimes roamed these parts—what was his name? Sigurd? In any case, Osbern had looked forward to this ride across Shropshire with Ralph, and especially to the town of Shrewsbury. Osbern truly enjoyed Shrewsbury on days such as this. He liked celebrating the fruits of anyone's labor. Hard work deserved respect.

But the longer he and Ralph remained in the town streets, the emptier they became.

Contrary to common opinion, Osbern generally liked watching the Anglo-Saxon people in the midst of their normal lives. Sometimes he found their ways foolish, that was true. But he had learned to be patient with their slow realization of Norman wisdom. Based on the stories his father told him, he felt amazed that a country plagued for centuries by Vikings and only recently freed from the reign of a Viking king could go on pretending from day to day that war was a far and distant thing. The Saxons lived generally peaceful lives, more concerned with tending their fields or shearing their sheep than protecting themselves from the threat of battle. And yet Osbern knew that they could prove fearsome in some situations. The dichotomy fascinated him.

They could go on pretending that the threat of warfare did not hang over them. But when reality proved otherwise, they would all learn to appreciate Richard's castle—whether by standing inside its walls or outside of them.

"Free food!" he cried. "Free food for anyone who—"

"Osbern."

Twisting his horse's reins, Osbern turned to see a familiar young man standing nearby. The fifteen-year-old stood with his arms crossed next to a cart full of logs. But that did not give him away so much as his head of thick red curls. "Edric Godricson."

"The food isn't free if people have to go to your castle and grovel at your feet for it."

Osbern inhaled sharply. His horse stirred beneath him as his muscles clenched with anger. He reached down to steady the mare with his hand and perhaps draw from her strength. "I disagree. They should be honored by the opportunity to roam through the castle as guests."

"Even though their children built it for you?"

"It was their duty." Osbern gnashed his teeth with anger. He had hoped Edric of all people might wish to attend the feast. Edric had visited Richard's castle on a few occasions. When Osbern first gave him the tour many years ago, he had looked impressed. He had returned a few more times with his father, Godric, who came to see Lord Richard. Richard and Godric liked to meet privately; Osbern suspected that Godric gave Richard some sort of military advice. In the meantime, Osbern had been forced to spend time with Edric. But he had not fully resented the experience.

Ralph nudged his horse forward, sensing his lord's inner turmoil. "Hey Edric," he said. "You may have more fun than you think. I expect to see a few pretty ladies there." He winked.

This seemed to get Edric's attention.

Irritated by Ralph's jocularity, Osbern grunted and climbed off his horse. He preferred being on his horse's back to his own feet, but somehow he felt it important to speak to Edric on ground level—even if he still towered a little over the Saxon. The mare snorted as Osbern pulled her after him, loping slightly on his crooked foot.

"Listen, Edric. I ..." Osbern stopped just in front of Edric and looked down at him. Edric did not have a particularly intimidating demeanor. He still had somewhat childish features and a much smaller build than Osbern. But his eyes blazed back at Osbern with a dismantling ferocity. Osbern wilted slightly and lowered his voice. "I thought you enjoyed visiting the castle. And now that the keep is finished, it is truly magnificent. You should see it."

"I pretended to enjoy it," said Edric, "so that when you weren't paying attention I could slip some coins to your slaves."

"You... what? Why would you do that?" Osbern snorted. "Foolish boy. Those workers are beneath the likes of you and me. In any case, most of them are free now, and they can cease to concern you."

"Free? They live in fear of you and your 'magnificent' castle. You can't even _pay_ them to come to your feast. Is that why you rode all the way to Shrewsbury? You know you'll have to search far and wide for attendants."

"Now listen here, you ignorant—" He was already reaching for Edric and grabbing his tunic before he had thought it all through.

Fortunately, Ralph remained nearby and must have seen this coming. He interjected sharply. "My lord, I think we're wasting our time here. No need to waste more of it."

Osbern held Edric by the hem of his tunic, breathing heavily with anger. He felt further confounded by the fact that rather than being scared, Edric looked vaguely satisfied.

"Go on then," said Edric. "Why use just your hands? There must be a reason you always carry a sword on your hip. If you're going to be a bully you might as well play the role properly."

"Play the role properly...?" The words disturbed him in a way he could not explain. He released Edric, shrinking back towards his horse. He grabbed her saddle for support, finding himself dizzy.

"Osbern?" said Ralph. "Are you well?"

A surge of anger brought Osbern back to his senses. "I'm your lord," he snarled. "And I am well enough. But you are right. We are certainly wasting our time here." He sent a last glare in Edric's direction as he climbed back up his horse. "I'm glad you're not coming, _imbécile_."

He lashed his horse more fiercely than he'd intended and hurried out of Shrewsbury.

*

Osbern returned to the castle late that night and realized he no longer felt excited about the feast. He walked up the barbican to the keep, then through the darkness of the first level to the flickering torches of the second. He did not feel as proud of his home as he wanted to. It did not even feel much like home.

His father had gone to bed early, probably because his ankles had been bothering him of late. Osbern felt reluctant to go to his own bed. The profound silence of his chambers required some adjustment. Sometimes he actually missed the sounds of slaves or rowdy guards outside the flimsy wooden walls of his previous chambers, even though he had complained of them at the time. The silence of the keep could somehow seem deafening.

He found Sir Geoffrey sitting in the dining hall next to an empty goblet and a pitcher of wine. Osbern rarely saw the knight drink. Then again, Geoffrey only seemed to be glaring at the wine rather than touching it.

Osbern sat further down the table and took some stale bread from a bowl. He ate it quickly, then shifted in his seat, wondering what to do next.

"Sit still," snapped Geoffrey.

Osbern jerked with surprise. He might have reprimanded Geoffrey for taking that tone if his heart wasn't pounding so quickly with fear.

"Please, Suzerain," the knight added absently.

Osbern gulped, wondering what thoughts ran through the older man's mind. Geoffrey had not been himself ever since five slaves escaped under his watch, the sixth having died at Geoffrey's hand. It was unlike the hawk-eyed knight to make such a clumsy mistake. Lord Richard had been furious with him and strictly limited his duties ever since. Fortunately for Geoffrey, the keep had nearly been finished anyway, and the slaves would have been freed by now. The punishment was not as harsh as it could have been.

"Why did it happen?" Osbern asked suddenly.

The knight's pale eyes blinked with surprise. "Excuse me?"

"Why did the slaves escape?"

A slight snarl pulled at Geoffrey's lips. The expression on Geoffrey's face might have made Osbern flee in terror if he didn't already feel so hopeless. Why not see what happened when he got Geoffrey riled? There was nothing else to do in this God-forsaken place.

"You must have let them get away with it," Osbern pressed. "Or something must have gone terribly wrong. So why did it happen?"

Geoffrey stood up. Osbern's stomach rolled inside of him. Geoffrey could kill him right here and now and no one would be around to stop him. After all, who knew what this knight would do lately? But Geoffrey only turned to pour himself a goblet of wine.

The knight sniffed the liquor carefully. Then he brought it to his lips and sipped. A calm settled over him as he swallowed the sweet liquid. His eyes peered through his yellow bangs into the shadows of the hall, as if into another time and place.

"Do you feel as if you have any control over what happens to you in this life, Suzerain?"

The question caught Osbern by such surprise that he needed a long time to think about it. Even then, the best response he could muster was, "Somewhat."

"'Somewhat.'" Geoffrey sneered at him, but part of the expression looked like a genuine smile. "You surprise me, Osbern. I thought that you of all people would say 'yes.'"

Osbern decided to overlook the fact that Geoffrey had called him by name. Doing so might ruin this otherwise interesting moment. Osbern found himself looking the knight in the eyes and confessing, "I never chose to move to Engla-lond."

His own bluntness astounded him. What if his father walked in right now? What if he had heard the resentment in Osbern's voice? For once Osbern didn't care. Let the ugly truth release itself.

"I didn't even choose to build this fucking castle," grumbled Osbern. "So why would I believe I had much control over my life?"

"Because you act as if you do every day." Geoffrey's eyes seemed to pierce him with their intensity. The knight leaned slightly closer. "You issue commands. You cling to your sword. You wish desperately to discover that one of your actions has achieved the desired response. Yet again and again you fail."

"Careful, knight." Osbern felt himself trembling slightly, and he prayed that Geoffrey did not notice. "What happens to us is God's will, in the end."

Geoffrey set down his goblet, still nearly brimming. "Cling to what illusions you'd like." He wiped his lips with the tips of his fingers, and looked directly out the window. Osbern thought the sun must blaze straight into Geoffrey's eyes, but the knight did not flinch. "There is no control. No real certainties. We shouldn't even be here. God raped the sky and we appeared. So now He is trying to kill us."

A long silence must have passed after that. Osbern didn't really know. He couldn't move, couldn't think. Only stare at Geoffrey in shocked silence.

Geoffrey finally turned to look at him, his eyes still gleaming with the glow of the sun. Then he gave a low chuckle.

Osbern shook his head and finally returned to his senses, realizing he must look like a dullard. "How long did it take you to come up with that nonsense?" he sputtered.

Geoffrey just kept chuckling.

*

In the darkness, Osbern heard slurps, groans, and whispers. He struggled to breathe through the thick stench of filth and decay.

"Play the role properly."

Play the role properly...

A gleam of light against mud revealed a shape coming towards him. It arose from a swamp of moaning corpses. Nonetheless, as it stepped forward, the sludge ran off its fur and faded into the marsh. A coat of silvery hairs shifted like small blades in the moonlight. A soft snarl rumbled through the shadows.

Osbern watched, breathless, as black lips pulled back to reveal rows of jagged teeth. Stinking breath poured over him as he looked into the eyes of the wolf.

Osbern screamed.

He awoke gasping in the dark, still trying to recover his breath. Sweat poured down his face and neck. His blankets were soaked. He climbed out of bed and staggered to the small aperture in the wall to inhale the night breeze.

No matter how deeply he breathed, he could not rid his nose of the stench of the swamp, nor stop hearing the snarl of the wolf.

*

On the day of the feast, Osbern stayed in his room.

He dressed in a clean tunic dyed of deep midnight blue and embroidered with golden thread. He combed the top of his head, even though there was not much hair to subdue, and splashed his face with water. He wore his finest studded belt and laid out his favorite mantle to drape over his shoulders if the evening got cool enough. But none of that mattered. He could not bring himself to get up and face the disappointment that would await him outside. Fully dressed, he lay on his bed and covered himself with blankets.

He could see some of the bailey grounds from the small opening of his window. He knew that the only people arriving were rich thegns who wanted to make friends with Richard or desperate peasants who hoped to take a large amount of the food. He didn't care to mingle with either sort. Most people of importance he had already met. The rest could come and go as they pleased. He would let his father deal with them. Osbern had already done his part riding all around the shire and inviting people. It was his father's fault none of them wanted to come. So his father could deal with the consequences.

At some point in the afternoon, his door shook with a brusque knock. From his bed, he grumbled, "Come in."

To his surprise, Geoffrey stood in the doorway. "Lord Richard requires your presence in the hall."

"Tell him I'm not feeling well."

Geoffrey just stared back at him, not moving.

"I'm not feeling well!" It was actually true, though his mood was more of an issue than any physical ailment. He didn't care to explain that.

"Suzerain." A mixture of irritation and sympathy tinged Geoffrey's voice. "He will not accept your absence."

"Geoffrey." Osbern met the knight's flat stare without flinching. "I'm staying in my room."

"Very well." The knight turned and walked away, leaving the door cracked open.

Osbern didn't bother to close it. He couldn't explain what had come over him, but he could not dismiss it, either. A deep fury burned within him, one he had ignored until now. He did not know where it came from nor what he might do if he allowed himself to embrace it. An aching anxiety rode beneath it, making his muscles clench and his heart pound fiercely. Nothing seemed safe or certain right now. The only wise thing to do was to stay in his room and not involve himself any further in this God-accursed feast.

He lay there awhile longer, clenching his blankets in his hands and gnashing his teeth until his head hurt. Then his father arrived.

Osbern heard the man's loud, shuffling steps long before his shadow fell over the doorway. Osbern sat up straight, his heart in his throat. But he did not get out of bed. Not even when his father stepped through the doorway and looked down at him.

"What. Are you. Doing," said Richard slowly.

"Nothing," said Osbern. "I'm doing nothing. So why don't you—"

Richard reached down and gripped his ear. Then he yanked so hard that Osbern cried out.

"Get up," growled Richard. " _Get up!_ "

The sharp pain had caused tears to spring to Osbern's eyes. But the embarrassment hurt more than anything else. He scrambled out of bed, disentangling himself from the blankets and planting himself on his feet, breathing sharply and waiting until at last Richard let go of his ear. Osbern looked down at the ground, trying to recover his breath and afraid to look at his father.

"I don't care how bad you may feel," hissed Richard. "I feel bad every fucking day. You don't let pain—or anything else—keeping you from doing your duty. To do so makes you _weak_ , Osbern. Do you wish to be _weak?_ "

"No, Father." Osbern's gaze traversed the smooth surface of the floor beneath them.

"Hey."

Osbern flinched as Robert grabbed his shoulder. But he only did so to shake Osbern, and force his son to look up at him.

"There are some thegns here who wish to feast with us," said Richard. "You will not keep them waiting."

"Yes, Father."

Richard pulled Osbern forward as he let go. Then he nudged him ahead. "Go on, then."

Osbern bent to collect his boots. After a year of walking in them, the leather boots had conformed to the shape of Osbern's feet. As such, one of them bent slightly inwards. Osbern stared at it a moment before bothering to pull it on. He tried so hard to forget about the fact that he had one bad foot. Richard tried even harder to forget about his own twisted legs. But the world did not forget. The truth could not be denied. Even his own boots recognized the truth better than he did. One foot turned inwards, despite several attempts to set it straight in his youth, and the other did not. No amount of denial could change that simple fact.

" _Go on!_ "

Osbern stepped forward. His bad foot made him stagger for a moment, but he quickly corrected himself. Richard hated to see Osbern stagger. So Osbern straightened his stance and swept his legs forward. He sought the delicate balance between walking strongly and not getting too far ahead of his father. He must always be mindful of both. He must never disappoint his father. He must never step out of line.

He found himself walking faster.

He heard his father shuffling after him. He did not slow down. Instead he walked even faster.

Richard did not call after him, only struggled to catch up. Osbern felt a bitter satisfaction deep in his gut just picturing his father now, struggling to balance upon his big frame, too proud to ask Osbern to slow down. Osbern resisted the temptation to turn around to look.

Soon enough he swept into the dining hall, where he found the great feast laid out on the table and a few thegns awaiting his presence. For a moment the beauty of the scene before him nearly fooled him. Roasted chicken, honeyed pottage, eel, berries, plums, mead, cider, cabbage, carrots... even the long oak table could barely contain such a food supply. Meanwhile, a large number of Saxon thegns stood around the room—more than Osbern had expected. They did not come here for the food. They came to win Richard's friendship and trust, just in case the Norman lord remained as powerful as he believed himself to be. Osbern resisted the urge to laugh at them, to call them all fools; they should realize that just by coming here and showing respect, they gave Lord Richard the very power they feared.

Two particular people caught his gaze, and Osbern started at the sight of them. Thegn Godric stood quietly against the wall, his dark eyepatch covering the sunken gash of his face, his burly arms folded behind him. Next to him stood Edric, bright red hair and all, his smaller arms crossed stubbornly over his chest. Osbern could not restrain a small snort of satisfaction. Edric did not want to be here, but his father had dragged him here anyway. The youth reluctantly met Osbern's gaze and withered under it. Osbern's mind raced with all the smart remarks he could make to the self-righteous Saxon from this moment onward.

But at last Richard caught up with him, staggering into the hall without being able to hide his strained breath. "Please, everyone, sit and eat."

They did so, pretending not to notice Richard's beleaguered movement as he made his way to the head of the table. Osbern sat near him on the bench, not sure whether to be pleased or annoyed that he ended up across from Edric.

Soon enough, hands passed around bowls and reached greedily for fruits and vegetables. Servants came around to refill goblets, but could hardly quench the thirst of the men and women at the table. The thegns commended Richard verbally on his home and food, but this was not such a great compliment as the manner with which they consumed them all. Osbern watched their enthusiasm with some surprise. Perhaps he had been wrong to expect such a miserable feast as he had begun to envision. Perhaps now that most of the slaves had gone home, the Anglo-Saxons would truly begin to see their Norman neighbors differently.

Then his eyes fell on Edric, and all his hope dropped away again. Edric sat glaring at the food, arms still crossed over his chest, and not taking a single bite. Someone must have put some food on his plate, but he did not even touch it.

"Edric." Godric spoke with a low voice, and Osbern might not have heard the reprimand if he had not been playing close attention. The older warrior nudged his son with his elbow. "Eat your food!"

Osbern's heart fell further when Edric's gaze met his. He had not meant to be caught staring. This only seemed to encourage Edric.

"It's not my food," said Edric, glaring through a stray curl at Osbern.

Hoping the Saxon was hungry, Osbern picked up a fat piece of chicken and sank his teeth into the meat.

Godric growled something under his breath to Edric.

"Something wrong?" said Richard.

With one last warning scowl at his son, Godric returned his attention to the lord of the castle. "It seems that Edric is not very hungry."

"I see." But Richard's brows lowered with concern.

Osbern watched Edric, helplessly intrigued as to what he might do next. The boy was stubborn enough to disobey a man like Godric. Osbern had to admit that took courage. But how would Edric react to Richard?

Edric stared back at the lord for a moment, then his gaze dropped back to his plate.

To his own surprise, Osbern felt a little disappointed. He realized he had wanted to see what would happen if Edric repeated the same words of indignation he had said to Osbern in Shrewsbury to Lord Richard himself. He did not want to see Edric victorious. So why would he wish for such a thing?

But he kept watching, and he saw Edric's hand tightening around his dinner knife. The young Saxon's jaws bulged as he clenched them. His frame shook slightly. Edric's anger was building inside him, gathering strength the longer he stared at the buttery role of bread on his plate. Then, when everyone had resumed eating and forgotten the minor disturbance, the words burst out of his mouth.

"This food should go to the men and women who built this castle! Not to people like us who sat by and watched them do it!"

A ripple of anxiety spread through the room. Everyone paused amidst chewing or reaching for more food. Even the servants standing nearby—perhaps them especially—snapped suddenly to attention.

Richard just looked at Edric with such shock on his face that Osbern would cherish the sight of it forever. Belatedly, Osbern realized this is what he had wanted to see all along. He had wanted to see how his father reacted when someone dared to challenge him.

Only when Richard turned that expression on his son did Osbern remember himself. Unlike Edric, he wilted under that fierce gaze. He turned to the young Saxon, sputtering out a response as quickly as he could manage one. "I invited anyone who wished to come, as you saw. It is not their own fault if they did not come here to get the food."

"They should not have to go anywhere!" Edric was pale with terror, his body trembling, but he did not let his fear get the best of him. "They should have eaten like this for every day of their labor! They should have—"

Godric stood up suddenly, grabbed his son's tunic, and wrenched him to his feet.

"My son has a tender spot in his heart for the poor and unfortunate," said Godric through gritted teeth, even as his son wriggled in his grip. "He must have gotten that from his mother. Forgive him, Richard. He means no disrespect."

"Yes I d—!"

Godric knocked Edric's breath from his chest with a firm shove towards the doorway. With surprising grace, he turned to give Richard a bow before following Edric out. "Thank you for your hospitality. We'll be going now."

And just like that, they were gone.

An awkward silence followed Godric's and Edric's departure. But at some point the thegns resumed eating, some continued talking, and most of the table managed to pretend as if nothing untoward had happened.

Osbern, on the other hand, had lost his appetite. He could not pay attention to the trivial conversations and empty compliments being exchanged around him. All he could do was replay the scene in his head over and over again. He recalled with vivid detail how Edric had stood up to a room of powerful men and displeased his own dangerous father. He wondered how Godric would punish him for it, and found himself hoping that it was not in the same way Richard disciplined his own son.

In what seemed no time at all, plates were being emptied, bellies patted, and farewells exchanged. While Osbern sat in a daze, unable to understand why what had just happened impacted him so greatly, the feast had concluded. One by one the Saxons shuffled out, the servants cleared away empty dishes, and the crowd dwindled to Osbern, Richard, and a few of their knights. Soon enough, even the knights walked away.

Osbern feared looking at his father. Would Richard detect the thoughts running through Osbern's mind? Could he sense the anger burning in his son's veins, on the verge of pouring over the surface?

Before Richard could say anything, Osbern stood. He knew he could not leave yet. He knew his father would stop him if he tried. Richard wanted to say something as surely as Osbern wanted to say something back. But he delayed this moment for as long as he could by crossing to the window and looking out of it. He watched from the height of the tower as the Saxon lords rode out of the gate into the pink light of the evening.

Osbern remembered Godric and Edric's departure. Then he remembered the look on Richard's face when Edric spoke against him. Those wide eyes, that gaping mouth, that long face... Osbern didn't know if he'd ever seen something so ridiculous in his entire life.

And then he burst out laughing.

"What are you laughing at?" Richard finally growled from his seat. "What do you find _funny?_ "

"The feast, Father." Amidst a torrent of fresh chuckles, Osbern struggled to draw the breath to speak. "Did you not find it funny, yourself?"

Grunting, Richard stood and made his way around the table. Even when Osbern sensed his father's approach, he could not stop laughing.

"That feast was humiliating," said Richard. "First of all, you should have gotten more people to come. Second of all, you should never have let Edric entertain such low opinions of us."

"I should not have _let_ him?" Osbern's chuckles ceased, if only for a moment. "Father, how does Edric's nonsense have anything to do with me?"

"You met him when he was young. You should have made a good impression on him. You might have even befriended him. At the very least he should have learned to respect you, look up to you, just as all the boys and girls his age should have! Instead you made them resent you, and in turn, _me!_ "

"Everyone resents you, Father. It's about fucking time you realized that!"

The last of his breath blew out of him as Richard's fist struck his stomach. Before he could try to breathe again, Richard grabbed his shoulders and flung him to the ground.

Osbern was still too staggered from the first blow to prepare for the fall. His elbow and knee smacked painfully against the stone floor. He crumpled the rest of the way, unwilling to push himself back up. His whole body ached and he struggled to recover his breath. His head spun and yet this awful, inexplicable laughter kept bubbling in his chest. When he recovered enough, a little snort came out again.

Richard grabbed the table for balance and pulled back his leg to kick. Osbern scrambled out of the way in time, but then he sneered back up at his father. He did not feel like himself. He did not know how he had brought himself to speak to Richard that way. For better or worse, Edric must have inspired him. In any case, now that the dam had broken, Osbern could not push back the deluge. "You know it's not my fault people didn't come today," he gasped. "It's the fact this fucking castle exists in the first place!"

"You don't know what you're talking about." Richard's voice was low and guttural. The veins of his large forehead bulged over his eyebrows. "This castle will protect them. Once they learn to accept me as—"

"They will not accept us." Osbern grabbed the edge of the table and pulled himself to his knees. He winced and clutched his stomach, feeling his guts throb inside him. He did not think his father had ever hit him so hard as that before. But tonight, he could take it. Tonight, he felt instilled with unusual power. "Not until we learn to play the role properly."

"Play what role? What do you mean?"

Osbern didn't really know. He just knew that somehow, it was important. He was going to say something, but his next breath hurt more than the last, and he curled in on himself, gritting his teeth.

Richard took this as an opportunity to strike with a new argument. " _You're_ the one who has misjudged his role here, Osbern. You vilify the Anglo-Saxons every chance you get. You ought to be making friends and building trust with them. I taught you to try to be one of them. Instead you cling to your homeland even more fiercely than I do. Do you even remember Normandy? You should not. This is your home. These people are your neighbors. But you treat them like enemies."

The last of Osbern's laughter was gone. Instead he felt empty inside, all except for a dull, pulsing ache. He didn't even know how much of it came from the punch anymore. The pain seemed to rise to his chest, constricting his breath. His nails dug into the table. As he peered over it, he noticed the dark shape of Geoffrey, looming quietly in the corner. Why was he here? To aid in Osbern's torture? He groaned and lay his forehead against the table, feeling splinters bite his skin.

He closed his eyes and saw the wolf again, rising towards him from the muck.

Play the role properly...

Through fluttering lashes, Osbern looked back at his father.

"You did not teach me to be one of them. You taught me to think like a Norman. You showed me that anyone can be an enemy, and the only living creature a man should trust is his horse. You taught me not to be weak. Is it not weak to make friends of people who despise us? To bend to the wishes of those who cannot train a horse properly, or best us in swordplay?"

"It is not so simple."

"Yes it is, Father. You are just too fucking stubborn to see it. The Saxons hate you. They will never be your friends, and they will never accept you, any more than the Normans did. No matter where you go, you are just a foolish old man who can't even walk straight!"

He watched Richard's hand rise. He prepared himself for the blow. He suspected that this one might surpass even the last. And yet for some reason he stayed there, waiting for it, even welcoming the onslaught.

A smack of flesh marked the sound of Geoffrey catching Richard's arm. Lord Richard struggled against him, but he could not keep his balance while Geoffrey held him firmly. With a careful flex of his fingers, Geoffrey released him and Richard went staggering backwards. He caught himself against the wall, breathing raggedly.

No one spoke for a time, only struggled to catch their breaths and calm their rapid heartbeats. Osbern stared curiously at Geoffrey, unable to explain why the knight would rise to his defense. Geoffrey only glared through his yellow bangs at Richard, waiting for the large lord to make another move.

"Osbern," rasped Richard at last. He sounded weak and strained, all anger sapped from his body. "You may feel as if we have fought to make our stance here in Engla-lond. Perhaps it has seemed like a battle to you, and I was wrong if I encouraged you to think that way. But now the castle is finished. The slaves have been sent home. We are ready to help the Anglo-Saxons and return their support. Our rivalry with them is finished."

"No." Osbern looked at Geoffrey. In the knight's pale eyes he saw his own fears reflected, a future of constant struggle and endless bloodshed. Only Geoffrey seemed to look forward to it. "It is only beginning."

**

### **

Clip from

### Edric the Wild

(Chapter 1 Excerpt)

Behind them, the sun sank low in the horizon, adding red hues to the interior of the building. A low fire cast flickering light onto the rush-covered floor. Strong winter winds struck the walls, making the tapestries billow and rustle. In the middle of it all sat two groups of armed men. One was Godric's, who wore a mixture of tunics, light mail, and axes. But at the front end of the table sat Lord Richard FitzScrob and six of his own knights. The Normans were dressed as if for war, covered in chainmail and even steel plates, each of them draped with a sword at his hip.

Tension hung in the air, but it was less taut than Edric had expected. All of the men were drinking and eating, though it was not yet time for dinner. The food seemed to provide a channel for their anger, for they chewed as if to kill a small rodent between their teeth. Edric was glad that they were more preoccupied with their food than their heavy, gleaming weapons. Osgifu herself moved down the table, refilling empty cups and horns.

Godric seemed to calm somewhat as he paused near the threshold, surveying the scene with his one good eye. Edric could still hear the snarl in his voice as he said, "Richard."

"Hello, Godric."

Edric peeked around his father's shoulder to see the Norman lord. He sat hunched over the table, his big chin bobbing as he chewed on a stale piece of bread. The man had a large and awkward form innately, with such unfortunate features as a long bent nose and ridiculous chin. But other parts of his body seemed even more gnarled, twisted as if to make up for his bad feet. Even though he was surely rich enough to afford better accommodations, Richard FitzScrob insisted on walking on his own two feet with as little help as possible—except for the typical occasions of riding a horse. His short hair, cropped close around his ears, only emphasized the hugeness of his skull. He was truly monstrous, thought Edric. And yet his father insisted on being friends with him.

"You are... welcome at my table, of course." Godric cleared his throat, which remained hoarse despite his better efforts. "But why are you here?"

Richard wiped off his bulbous chin and threw the dirty cloth onto the table top. "I think you know why. Or, at least, your son does."

Godric stepped aside, revealing the youth in question, and Edric flushed nearly as red as his hair.

Edric resisted the urge to cry _I didn't do it!_ yet again. Now faced with Richard, he felt bolder than before. He knew he was not guilty. He had nothing to fear from this brutish, evil man. This man was a bully and responsible for sprouting another bully, his son Osbern. Edric stuck up his chin, knowing that he had right on his side. "I have done nothing wrong," he declared.

Richard planted his fists on the table and pushed himself up. The movement was intimidating, even though the deformed lord swayed while attempting to steady himself on inward-pointing feet. Edric shoved his his chin high while Richard glared at him through black eyebrows. "My son is lying in bed, bruised and bloodied, and one of his knights lies dead in the forest. _Someone_ must pay, and if you are a man of good faith, Edric, you will confess to what you have done."

Edric paled. He stepped back a little, gulping.

Godric turned on him again. Though he did not hold his axe in his hands, he looked ready enough to hack Edric in two, nonetheless. "What happened, Edric?" The strain in his father's voice surprised him. In it was both sadness and fear.

Edric slicked his throat with a swallow, but still found it hard to speak. "I... defended myself against Osbern. Nothing more. He swung at me, you see. Ask Leofred. Ask anyone in the tavern that night. He swung at me first, so I dodged, and swung at him in return. Only my blow connected. Should I be punished for my superior aim?"

Richard made a grunting sound and a flinching movement. Godric's hearth companions all jerked at once, their hands moving towards their swords and axes. But Richard moved no further, so neither did they. Stillness resumed once more, and Edric blew a careful sigh of relief.

"You killed one of my son's knights," said Richard.

"I certainly did not. I and my horse-man, Leofred, left immediately after that. We rode home and nothing else happened."

"An easy lie," said the Norman. "Osbern says two of his knights followed you out into the woods. It was dark and no one else saw what happened. But it's obvious."

Godric's breath heaved in and out; his shoulders sagged forward. He would not turn to look at his son, though now Edric wished that he would, for surely he would see the surprise and confusion on his own face. Osgifu came over and put her hands around her husband's arm, which lifted him back up slightly. "How did he die?" he rasped at last. "Could it have been an accident?"

"Stabbed through the neck," said Richard.

Edric staggered. Suddenly, this whole situation had gone from an inconvenient misunderstanding to something very, very real. A murder had truly taken place. And all of the evidence, or lack thereof, pointed to Edric as the obvious culprit.

"But I did not do it." He tried to sound calm, confident. That was difficult, now that fear clutched him around the neck. Godric finally looked at him, searching for hope, but finding none, it seemed. "I swear, Father. I didn't."

"Can you... prove it?" said Godric.

Edric shrugged helplessly. "How should I know? I wasn't even there when it happened!"

"I didn't come here to argue," snapped Richard. "It is clear to me what happened, and the proper punishment will be made. I came here as a courtesy to you, Godric, so that you would be forewarned of your son's misbehavior. We will take this to the shire court, and if Edric is found guilty—as I'm sure he will be—he must pay three hundred shillings."

"Three hundred?" Godric shook his head uncertainly. "The weregald of a free man is only two hundred."

"Perhaps more," said Richard. "He was a Norman."

Edric could practically hear his father's teeth grinding together. He pretended to like the Normans because King Edward liked the Normans. When King Edward—an Anglo-Saxon by birth—came back from Normandy and took the throne of Engla-lond, he brought several knights and Norman lords with him. King Edward himself had given Richard FitzScrob his great estate in Shrewsbury, as well as one in Herefordshire and Worcestershire. Godric tried to approve of everything King Edward did because he had fought so hard to put King Edward on the throne. But it was difficult for any Anglo-Saxon to approve of the way the Normans planted themselves on the English landscape and seized so much power. Truly enough, Richard could probably demand three hundred shillings for the life of one of his knights, and Godric could do nothing to refute him.

The discussion seemingly over, Richard turned and hobbled away from his seat. His feet were much worse than his son's, both set of toes practically touching. He had to move somewhat sideways in order to walk at all. Once he had made it to the end of the table, his knights following slowly after, he paused there, his drooping eyes lifting somewhat.

"I hope this does not cause problems between us," he said.

"Nor do I," snarled Godric. His muscles were as tight as ropes, Edric could see, even though Osgifu kept her calming hands upon him. "We will right this wrong, I assure you."

"I hope you do, Godric Kingslayer."

Godric's face slackened with shock. Edric felt a shiver of fear. There was no reason Richard would bring up Godric's old nickname unless to use it as a threat. Seeing that Godric understood his meaning, he hobbled the rest of his way out of the hall.

As Edric listened to their slowly receding footsteps, he considered the possible repercussions of Richard's parting words. He did not know the full details of Godric's past, but he did know that Godric had killed King Harold Harefoot. Most nobles, in fact, knew this, though the proof had been discarded, for his father told him Earl Goodwin of Wessex had arranged the murder himself. As Goodwin and his sons possessed as much wealth and power in Engla-lond as King Edward himself, if not more, no one bothered to protest the incident. After Godric slit Harold's throat, Goodwin had Harold's head chopped off and his body thrown into the river with no ceremony at all.

Other rumors circulated about Godric "Kingslayer"—rumors Edric was not entirely sure were true. His father had sat him down one day to confess the fact he had killed Harold Harefoot, and he had done so with full disclosure. If he had more to confess, wouldn't he have done so? Besides, if the rumors were to be believed, Godric had killed as many as four kings. Which was simply ridiculous.

At last, the sounds of Richard and his men galloping away faded to silence. In that moment Godric stormed to the table, picked up a goblet, and threw it against the far wall with so much force the wood creaked.

"FUCK!" he shouted.

*

Edric the Wild is now available as an ebook or paperback from many retailers

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, as compiled by various monks including Florence of Worcester until the year 1140, were my primary sources of information. So, too, were 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 this time would be known.

I also want to thank the historians and authors listed below. Their research and writings helped to shed light on an otherwise dark and mysterious time as I sought to find Eadric's story.

Association of American Law Schools. Select Essays in Anglo-American History: Vol. 1. Little, Brown, and Company. Boston. 1907.

Campbell, James et al. The Anglo-Saxons. Phaidon Press Limited, 1982.

Crossley-Holland, Kevin. The Anglo-Saxon World: An Anthology. Oxford University Press, 1982.

Freeman, Edward A. Old English History for Children. London, MacMillan and Co., 1869.

Green, W.C., Translator. _Egil's Saga_. Translated 1893 from the original Egils saga Skallagrímssonar. Web: "Icelandic Saga Database." http://www.sagadb.org/egils_saga.en

Gregory, T, comp. _The Shropshire Gazetteer: Including a survey of the county and Valuable Miscellaneous Information. M. Harvard College University_. Baldwin, Cradock, and Joy, London, 1824.

Hooper, Nicholas and Matthew Bennett. The Cambridge Illustrated Atlas of Warfare: the Middle Ages. 1996.

Lacey, Robert and Danny Danzinger. The Year 1000 : What Life Was Like at the Turn of the First Millennium. Little, Brown and Company, 1999.

Lappenberg, Johann Martin and Benjamin Thorpe. History of England under the Anglo-Saxon Kings, Volume 2. 1845.

Levick, Ben. "Anglo-Saxon Social Organization." 1990. Regia Anglorum Publications. 2002. Net: <http://www.regia.org/Saxons1.htm>

Lingard, John. The History of England from the First Invasion by the Romans, Vol.1. Third Edition. London. Printed for J. Mawman. 1845.

Lingard, John. The History of England from the First Invasion by the Romans, Vol. 2. Fifth Edition. London. Printed by J & H Cox (Brothers). 1849.

Mersey, Daniel. "Medieval Welsh Warriors and Welfare." 1997. Web. http://www.castlewales.com/warfare.html

Murray, Stephen J. "From Dot to Domesday." Web. http://www.dot-domesday.me.uk/index.htm

O'Brien, Harriet. Queen Emma and the Vikings. Bloomsbury Publishing, 2005. Print.

Ramsay, James Henry. The Foundations of England; or, Twelve Centuries of British History (B.C. 55 A.D. 1154). London, 1898.

Remfry, Paul Martin. Richard's Castle 1048 to 1219. SCS Publishing. 1997.

Thoyras, Rapin. The History of England: Volume 2. Translated by N.Tindal. London. 1743.

Thrupp, John. The Anglo-Saxon Home: A History of the Domestic Institutions and Customs of England (from the Fifth to Eleventh Century). London, 1889.

Williams, Ann. The English and the Norman Conquest. Boydell Press, Woodbridge, 1995.

Wilson, David Mackenzie. The Archaeology of Anglo-Saxon England. Methuen and Co. Ltd, 1976.

**

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jayden Woods is the pen name for Jenny Gibbons. She grew up on a farm in rural Tennessee, then pursued her dreams of film-making in Los Angeles. After receiving a BFA in Screenwriting from the University of Southern California and working on a primetime TV show, she decided to return to her original passion of writing novels. Since then she has lived in St. Louis with her wonderful husband and three beautiful pets, throwing all her will and energy into becoming a successful writer.

www.jaydenwoods.com

**

_Praise for_ _Eadric the Grasper_

Released October 5, 2010

"In the debut of her Sons of Mercia series, Woods tells a ripped-from-the-chronicles story—most of the characters and major events are factual—with an entertaining blend of period realism and Zorro-ish dazzle."

—Kirkus Discoveries

"A surprisingly easy and quick read considering the epic nature of the novel, Eadric the Grasper takes the reader through the twisted journey of an intelligent peasant (a swineherd) ... If I was forced to make a comparison, I'd say the book, in theme, feels like the Historical version of the award winning American television show, "Breaking Bad." A good man, forced by situations far beyond his control, makes the the best decisions possible, but they lead him down the dark rabbit hole ..."

— Sean Crouch, Screenwriter, _Numb3rs_

"If you had given up finding derring to match do in an exciting historical romance because Sir Walter Scott was dead, weep no more. Eadric the Grasper by Jayden Woods brings homicidal Vikings, ferocious lovers, and frequent murder most foul to brilliant life in literary 3D. Turn away from thy Twitter and grab it."

—Ron Friedman, _Creator of GI Joe, The Marvel Action Hour_ ; Writer of _The Transformers: The Movie_

"Many of the characters refer to [Eadric] as a coward, but I never thought of him in that way. If anything, he acted boldly and through astute observation of the swift changes coming to England, he did his best to forge a good life for him and his family. Still, his boldness accompanied a strange and dangerous naiveté that did not allow him to appreciate the full consequences of his actions at times. As in life, Jayden Woods' Eadric remains a complicated character."

—Lisa Yarde, Author of On Falcon's Wings

