by Jayden Woods
“Free? They live in fear of you and your ‘magnificent’ castle. You can’t even pay them to come to your feast. Is that why you rode all the way to Shrewsbury? You know you’ll have to search far and wide for attendants.”
“Now listen here, you ignorant—” He was already reaching for Edric and grabbing his tunic before he had thought it all through.
Fortunately, Ralph remained nearby and must have seen this coming. He interjected sharply. “My lord, I think we’re wasting our time here. No need to waste more of it.”
Osbern held Edric by the hem of his tunic, breathing heavily with anger. He felt further confounded by the fact that rather than being scared, Edric looked vaguely satisfied.
“Go on then,” said Edric. “Why use just your hands? There must be a reason you always carry a sword on your hip. If you’re going to be a bully you might as well play the role properly.”
“Play the role properly …?” The words disturbed him in a way he could not explain. He released Edric, shrinking back towards his horse. He grabbed her saddle for support, finding himself dizzy.
“Osbern?” said Ralph. “Are you well?”
A surge of anger brought Osbern back to his senses. “I’m your lord,” he snarled. “And I am well enough. But you are right. We are certainly wasting our time here.” He sent a last glare in Edric’s direction as he climbed back up his horse. “I’m glad you’re not coming, imbécile.”
He lashed his horse more fiercely than he’d intended and hurried out of Shrewsbury.
*
Osbern returned to the castle late that night and realized he no longer felt excited about the feast. He walked up the barbican to the keep, then through the darkness of the first level to the flickering torches of the second. He did not feel as proud of his home as he wanted to. It did not even feel much like home.
His father had gone to bed early, probably because his ankles had been bothering him of late. Osbern felt reluctant to go to his own bed. The profound silence of his chambers required some adjustment. Sometimes he actually missed the sounds of slaves or rowdy guards outside the flimsy wooden walls of his previous chambers, even though he had complained of them at the time. The silence of the keep could somehow seem deafening.
He found Sir Geoffrey sitting in the dining hall next to an empty goblet and a pitcher of wine. Osbern rarely saw the knight drink. Then again, Geoffrey only seemed to be glaring at the wine rather than touching it.
Osbern sat further down the table and took some stale bread from a bowl. He ate it quickly, then shifted in his seat, wondering what to do next.
“Sit still,” snapped Geoffrey.
Osbern jerked with surprise. He might have reprimanded Geoffrey for taking that tone if his heart wasn’t pounding so quickly with fear.
“Please, Suzerain,” the knight added absently.
Osbern gulped, wondering what thoughts ran through the older man’s mind. Geoffrey had not been himself ever since five slaves escaped under his watch, the sixth having died at Geoffrey’s hand. It was unlike the hawk-eyed knight to make such a clumsy mistake. Lord Richard had been furious with him and strictly limited his duties ever since. Fortunately for Geoffrey, the keep had nearly been finished anyway, and the slaves would have been freed by now. The punishment was not as harsh as it could have been.
“Why did it happen?” Osbern asked suddenly.
The knight’s pale eyes blinked with surprise. “Excuse me?”
“Why did the slaves escape?”
A slight snarl pulled at Geoffrey’s lips. The expression on Geoffrey’s face might have made Osbern flee in terror if he didn’t already feel so hopeless. Why not see what happened when he got Geoffrey riled? There was nothing else to do in this God-forsaken place.
“You must have let them get away with it,” Osbern pressed. “Or something must have gone terribly wrong. So why did it happen?”
Geoffrey stood up. Osbern’s stomach rolled inside of him. Geoffrey could kill him right here and now and no one would be around to stop him. After all, who knew what this knight would do lately? But Geoffrey only turned to pour himself a goblet of wine.
The knight sniffed the liquor carefully. Then he brought it to his lips and sipped. A calm settled over him as he swallowed the sweet liquid. His eyes peered through his yellow bangs into the shadows of the hall, as if into another time and place.
“Do you feel as if you have any control over what happens to you in this life, Suzerain?”
The question caught Osbern by such surprise that he needed a long time to think about it. Even then, the best response he could muster was, “Somewhat.”
“‘Somewhat.’” Geoffrey sneered at him, but part of the expression looked like a genuine smile. “You surprise me, Osbern. I thought that you of all people would say ‘yes.’”
Osbern decided to overlook the fact that Geoffrey had called him by name. Doing so might ruin this otherwise interesting moment. Osbern found himself looking the knight in the eyes and confessing, “I never chose to move to Engla-lond.”
His own bluntness astounded him. What if his father walked in right now? What if he had heard the resentment in Osbern’s voice? For once Osbern didn’t care. Let the ugly truth release itself.
“I didn’t even choose to build this fucking castle,” grumbled Osbern. “So why would I believe I had much control over my life?”
“Because you act as if you do every day.” Geoffrey’s eyes seemed to pierce him with their intensity. The knight leaned slightly closer. “You issue commands. You cling to your sword. You wish desperately to discover that one of your actions has achieved the desired response. Yet again and again you fail.”
“Careful, knight.” Osbern felt himself trembling slightly, and he prayed that Geoffrey did not notice. “What happens to us is God’s will, in the end.”
Geoffrey set down his goblet, still nearly brimming. “Cling to what illusions you’d like.” He wiped his lips with the tips of his fingers, and looked directly out the window. Osbern thought the sun must blaze straight into Geoffrey’s eyes, but the knight did not flinch. “There is no control. No real certainties. We shouldn’t even be here. God raped the sky and we appeared. So now He is trying to kill us.”
A long silence must have passed after that. Osbern didn’t really know. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Only stare at Geoffrey in shocked silence.
Geoffrey finally turned to look at him, his eyes still gleaming with the glow of the sun. Then he gave a low chuckle.
Osbern shook his head and finally returned to his senses, realizing he must look like a dullard. “How long did it take you to come up with that nonsense?” he sputtered.
Geoffrey just kept chuckling.
*
In the darkness, Osbern heard slurps, groans, and whispers. He struggled to breathe through the thick stench of filth and decay.
“Play the role properly.”
Play the role properly …
A gleam of light against mud revealed a shape coming towards him. It arose from a swamp of moaning corpses. Nonetheless, as it stepped forward, the sludge ran off its fur and faded into the marsh. A coat of silvery hairs shifted like small blades in the moonlight. A soft snarl rumbled through the shadows.
Osbern watched, breathless, as black lips pulled back to reveal rows of jagged teeth. Stinking breath poured over him as he looked into the eyes of the wolf.
Osbern screamed.
He awoke gasping in the dark, still trying to recover his breath. Sweat poured down his face and neck. His blankets were soaked. He climbed out of bed and staggered to the small aperture in the wall to inhale the night breeze.
No matter how deeply he breathed, he could not rid his nose of the stench of the swamp, nor stop hearing the snarl of the wolf.
*
On the day of the feast, Osbern stayed in his room.
He dressed in a clean tunic dyed of deep midnight blue and embroidered with golden thread. He combed the top of his head, even though the
re was not much hair to subdue, and splashed his face with water. He wore his finest studded belt and laid out his favorite mantle to drape over his shoulders if the evening got cool enough. But none of that mattered. He could not bring himself to get up and face the disappointment that would await him outside. Fully dressed, he lay on his bed and covered himself with blankets.
He could see some of the bailey grounds from the small opening of his window. He knew that the only people arriving were rich thegns who wanted to make friends with Richard or desperate peasants who hoped to take a large amount of the food. He didn’t care to mingle with either sort. Most people of importance he had already met. The rest could come and go as they pleased. He would let his father deal with them. Osbern had already done his part riding all around the shire and inviting people. It was his father’s fault none of them wanted to come. So his father could deal with the consequences.
At some point in the afternoon, his door shook with a brusque knock. From his bed, he grumbled, “Come in.”
To his surprise, Geoffrey stood in the doorway. “Lord Richard requires your presence in the hall.”
“Tell him I’m not feeling well.”
Geoffrey just stared back at him, not moving.
“I’m not feeling well!” It was actually true, though his mood was more of an issue than any physical ailment. He didn’t care to explain that.
“Suzerain.” A mixture of irritation and sympathy tinged Geoffrey’s voice. “He will not accept your absence.”
“Geoffrey.” Osbern met the knight’s flat stare without flinching. “I’m staying in my room.”
“Very well.” The knight turned and walked away, leaving the door cracked open.
Osbern didn’t bother to close it. He couldn’t explain what had come over him, but he could not dismiss it, either. A deep fury burned within him, one he had ignored until now. He did not know where it came from nor what he might do if he allowed himself to embrace it. An aching anxiety rode beneath it, making his muscles clench and his heart pound fiercely. Nothing seemed safe or certain right now. The only wise thing to do was to stay in his room and not involve himself any further in this God-accursed feast.
He lay there awhile longer, clenching his blankets in his hands and gnashing his teeth until his head hurt. Then his father arrived.
Osbern heard the man’s loud, shuffling steps long before his shadow fell over the doorway. Osbern sat up straight, his heart in his throat. But he did not get out of bed. Not even when his father stepped through the doorway and looked down at him.
“What. Are you. Doing,” said Richard slowly.
“Nothing,” said Osbern. “I’m doing nothing. So why don’t you—”
Richard reached down and gripped his ear. Then he yanked so hard that Osbern cried out.
“Get up,” growled Richard. “Get up!”
The sharp pain had caused tears to spring to Osbern’s eyes. But the embarrassment hurt more than anything else. He scrambled out of bed, disentangling himself from the blankets and planting himself on his feet, breathing sharply and waiting until at last Richard let go of his ear. Osbern looked down at the ground, trying to recover his breath and afraid to look at his father.
“I don’t care how bad you may feel,” hissed Richard. “I feel bad every fucking day. You don’t let pain—or anything else—keeping you from doing your duty. To do so makes you weak, Osbern. Do you wish to be weak?”
“No, Father.” Osbern’s gaze traversed the smooth surface of the floor beneath them.
“Hey.”
Osbern flinched as Robert grabbed his shoulder. But he only did so to shake Osbern, and force his son to look up at him.
“There are some thegns here who wish to feast with us,” said Richard. “You will not keep them waiting.”
“Yes, Father.”
Richard pulled Osbern forward as he let go. Then he nudged him ahead. “Go on, then.”
Osbern bent to collect his boots. After a year of walking in them, the leather boots had conformed to the shape of Osbern’s feet. As such, one of them bent slightly inwards. Osbern stared at it a moment before bothering to pull it on. He tried so hard to forget about the fact that he had one bad foot. Richard tried even harder to forget about his own twisted legs. But the world did not forget. The truth could not be denied. Even his own boots recognized the truth better than he did. One foot turned inwards, despite several attempts to set it straight in his youth, and the other did not. No amount of denial could change that simple fact.
“Go on!”
Osbern stepped forward. His bad foot made him stagger for a moment, but he quickly corrected himself. Richard hated to see Osbern stagger. So Osbern straightened his stance and swept his legs forward. He sought the delicate balance between walking strongly and not getting too far ahead of his father. He must always be mindful of both. He must never disappoint his father. He must never step out of line.
He found himself walking faster.
He heard his father shuffling after him. He did not slow down. Instead he walked even faster.
Richard did not call after him, only struggled to catch up. Osbern felt a bitter satisfaction deep in his gut just picturing his father now, struggling to balance upon his big frame, too proud to ask Osbern to slow down. Osbern resisted the temptation to turn around to look.
Soon enough he swept into the dining hall, where he found the great feast laid out on the table and a few thegns awaiting his presence. For a moment the beauty of the scene before him nearly fooled him. Roasted chicken, honeyed pottage, eel, berries, plums, mead, cider, cabbage, carrots … even the long oak table could barely contain such a food supply. Meanwhile, a large number of Saxon thegns stood around the room—more than Osbern had expected. They did not come here for the food. They came to win Richard’s friendship and trust, just in case the Norman lord remained as powerful as he believed himself to be. Osbern resisted the urge to laugh at them, to call them all fools; they should realize that just by coming here and showing respect, they gave Lord Richard the very power they feared.
Two particular people caught his gaze, and Osbern started at the sight of them. Thegn Godric stood quietly against the wall, his dark eyepatch covering the sunken gash of his face, his burly arms folded behind him. Next to him stood Edric, bright red hair and all, his smaller arms crossed stubbornly over his chest. Osbern could not restrain a small snort of satisfaction. Edric did not want to be here, but his father had dragged him here anyway. The youth reluctantly met Osbern’s gaze and withered under it. Osbern’s mind raced with all the smart remarks he could make to the self-righteous Saxon from this moment onward.
But at last Richard caught up with him, staggering into the hall without being able to hide his strained breath. “Please, everyone, sit and eat.”
They did so, pretending not to notice Richard’s beleaguered movement as he made his way to the head of the table. Osbern sat near him on the bench, not sure whether to be pleased or annoyed that he ended up across from Edric.
Soon enough, hands passed around bowls and reached greedily for fruits and vegetables. Servants came around to refill goblets, but could hardly quench the thirst of the men and women at the table. The thegns commended Richard verbally on his home and food, but this was not such a great compliment as the manner with which they consumed them all. Osbern watched their enthusiasm with some surprise. Perhaps he had been wrong to expect such a miserable feast as he had begun to envision. Perhaps now that most of the slaves had gone home, the Anglo-Saxons would truly begin to see their Norman neighbors differently.
Then his eyes fell on Edric, and all his hope dropped away again. Edric sat glaring at the food, arms still crossed over his chest, and not taking a single bite. Someone must have put some food on his plate, but he did not even touch it.
“Edric.” Godric spoke with a low voice, and Osbern might not have heard the reprimand if he had not been playing close attention. The older warrior nudged his son with his elbow. “Eat your food!”
>
Osbern’s heart fell further when Edric’s gaze met his. He had not meant to be caught staring. This only seemed to encourage Edric.
“It’s not my food,” said Edric, glaring through a stray curl at Osbern.
Hoping the Saxon was hungry, Osbern picked up a fat piece of chicken and sank his teeth into the meat.
Godric growled something under his breath to Edric.
“Something wrong?” said Richard.
With one last warning scowl at his son, Godric returned his attention to the lord of the castle. “It seems that Edric is not very hungry.”
“I see.” But Richard’s brows lowered with concern.
Osbern watched Edric, helplessly intrigued as to what he might do next. The boy was stubborn enough to disobey a man like Godric. Osbern had to admit that took courage. But how would Edric react to Richard?
Edric stared back at the lord for a moment, then his gaze dropped back to his plate.
To his own surprise, Osbern felt a little disappointed. He realized he had wanted to see what would happen if Edric repeated the same words of indignation he had said to Osbern in Shrewsbury to Lord Richard himself. He did not want to see Edric victorious. So why would he wish for such a thing?
But he kept watching, and he saw Edric’s hand tightening around his dinner knife. The young Saxon’s jaws bulged as he clenched them. His frame shook slightly. Edric’s anger was building inside him, gathering strength the longer he stared at the buttery role of bread on his plate. Then, when everyone had resumed eating and forgotten the minor disturbance, the words burst out of his mouth.
“This food should go to the men and women who built this castle! Not to people like us who sat by and watched them do it!”
A ripple of anxiety spread through the room. Everyone paused amidst chewing or reaching for more food. Even the servants standing nearby—perhaps them especially—snapped suddenly to attention.
Richard just looked at Edric with such shock on his face that Osbern would cherish the sight of it forever. Belatedly, Osbern realized this is what he had wanted to see all along. He had wanted to see how his father reacted when someone dared to challenge him.