Last Tales of Mercia 1040- 1058 AD (Book 2)

by Jayden Woods

  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 d
emanded.

  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 o
f 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.