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

by Jayden Woods

  “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 sus
pected 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.”