by Jayden Woods
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 wh
en 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.”