by Jayden Woods
*
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 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.