by Jayden Woods
*
In his room a meal was waiting for him, but he could not bring himself to eat it. He ran to the window, underneath which his mother had posted guards, and he sagged against the wall, peering uselessly into the gray horizon. Edward was nowhere to be seen.
Edward was dead.
He had stopped crying for a short while, somewhere in the midst of his struggling and attempting to escape while his mother’s hearth companions dragged him away and closed him in his room. Now the terrible truth struck him again, and it petrified him. For a moment he was too stunned to even start crying again. Ethelred had not seen Edward die, but he knew without a doubt that he was dead, at least by now. Alfryth would see to it.
Though he still could not move, a shudder shook him. He could hardly believe his mother’s cruelty and evilness. She may not have held the knife that stabbed Edward in the side, but she surely orchestrated its movement. He felt so confused and foolish for not seeing her intention before. Was he, in a way, to blame? He knew Alfryth did not like Edward, and wanted her own son on the throne instead, but he never thought she would do something like this to get her way. Had he unknowingly helped her?
The door opened, and Ethelred shrank against the wall, cowering. There in the doorway stood Alfryth, but his mother looked different to him than she ever had before. Perhaps this was because he now saw her for who she truly was. Perhaps it was because she had freed her head of its veil and wimple, and some of her long chestnut hair fell freely around her face and shoulders. Her skin seemed more flawless than ever, glowing with triumph and power; her dark eyes blazed with energy.
And yet, at the sight of Ethelred cowering, her expression soured again.
“Ethelred. My son.”
She turned and motioned to the retainers with a flick of her wrist, and they closed the doors behind her.
The dimly enclosed space now looked, to Ethelred, a great deal like how he imagined hell. The moonlight through the window provided a pale white glow to some corners of the room, but the rest of the chamber was filled with glaring orange candlelight and writhing, flickering shadows. Such shadows moved over the sharp angles of his mother’s face as she stared at him, and the sight of her livid face filled Ethelred with both terror and rage.
“How could you?” he cried. The sobs returned to his throat like so many rising bubbles.“My brother. Poor Edward. He was always so kind to us. He could have been cruel. He could have been but he—”
“SILENCE!” Alfryth reached out suddenly, slender arm uncoiling from the heavy folds of her sleeve like a snake, and grabbed a candle. Fortunately, the force of her throw caused the flame to gush out before striking Ethelred’s bed.“You are a king now! That is worth the death of one man; it is worth the death of hundreds of men! Worth it, at least, if you are a good king, and not a sniveling spoiled child. So stop your worthless crying!"
Her words moved him, but only for a moment. True, he would be a king now. He would rise up to fill Edward’s shoes. But would he be any better than Edward? He simply didn’t understand.“But Edward was a good king. What am I to do differently?”
“Oh stop asking questions!” She stormed closer, grabbing another candle and lifting it high. Ethelred flinched, expecting her to throw it again. But it was worse than that this time. She swung it down, and the hot waxy end struck Ethelred’s tunic, the flame flaring then snuffing out against the cloth. Ethelred yelled and curled up, shielding himself with the flesh of his back and the thin fabric of his cloak as she struck him again, and again, and again.
The candle snapped apart eventually, and she dropped it with a sickening thud. Her heaving breath roared in the silence. He uncurled slightly, trembling from head to foot. His back ached, and he knew he would have bruises. But he was no longer crying. His eyes were dry now, his gaze strangely vacant. Alfryth might not have noticed, for he could not bring himself to look at her; if she did notice she said nothing.
After a long and terrible silence, at last she turned and walked away. She paused as she pushed open the door.
“I’ll … send you some wine,” she said. And then she left.