by Jayden Woods
Only when Richard turned that expression on his son did Osbern remember himself. Unlike Edric, he wilted under that fierce gaze. He turned to the young Saxon, sputtering out a response as quickly as he could manage one. “I invited anyone who wished to come, as you saw. It is not their own fault if they did not come here to get the food.”
“They should not have to go anywhere!” Edric was pale with terror, his body trembling, but he did not let his fear get the best of him. “They should have eaten like this for every day of their labor! They should have—”
Godric stood up suddenly, grabbed his son’s tunic, and wrenched him to his feet.
“My son has a tender spot in his heart for the poor and unfortunate,” said Godric through gritted teeth, even as his son wriggled in his grip. “He must have gotten that from his mother. Forgive him, Richard. He means no disrespect.”
“Yes I d—!”
Godric knocked Edric’s breath from his chest with a firm shove towards the doorway. With surprising grace, he turned to give Richard a bow before following Edric out. “Thank you for your hospitality. We’ll be going now.”
And just like that, they were gone.
An awkward silence followed Godric’s and Edric’s departure. But at some point the thegns resumed eating, some continued talking, and most of the table managed to pretend as if nothing untoward had happened.
Osbern, on the other hand, had lost his appetite. He could not pay attention to the trivial conversations and empty compliments being exchanged around him. All he could do was replay the scene in his head over and over again. He recalled with vivid detail how Edric had stood up to a room of powerful men and displeased his own dangerous father. He wondered how Godric would punish him for it, and found himself hoping that it was not in the same way Richard disciplined his own son.
In what seemed no time at all, plates were being emptied, bellies patted, and farewells exchanged. While Osbern sat in a daze, unable to understand why what had just happened impacted him so greatly, the feast had concluded. One by one the Saxons shuffled out, the servants cleared away empty dishes, and the crowd dwindled to Osbern, Richard, and a few of their knights. Soon enough, even the knights walked away.
Osbern feared looking at his father. Would Richard detect the thoughts running through Osbern’s mind? Could he sense the anger burning in his son’s veins, on the verge of pouring over the surface?
Before Richard could say anything, Osbern stood. He knew he could not leave yet. He knew his father would stop him if he tried. Richard wanted to say something as surely as Osbern wanted to say something back. But he delayed this moment for as long as he could by crossing to the window and looking out of it. He watched from the height of the tower as the Saxon lords rode out of the gate into the pink light of the evening.
Osbern remembered Godric and Edric’s departure. Then he remembered the look on Richard’s face when Edric spoke against him. Those wide eyes, that gaping mouth, that long face … Osbern didn’t know if he’d ever seen something so ridiculous in his entire life.
And then he burst out laughing.
“What are you laughing at?” Richard finally growled from his seat. “What do you find funny?”
“The feast, Father.” Amidst a torrent of fresh chuckles, Osbern struggled to draw the breath to speak. “Did you not find it funny, yourself?”
Grunting, Richard stood and made his way around the table. Even when Osbern sensed his father’s approach, he could not stop laughing.
“That feast was humiliating,” said Richard. “First of all, you should have gotten more people to come. Second of all, you should never have let Edric entertain such low opinions of us.”
“I should not have let him?” Osbern’s chuckles ceased, if only for a moment. “Father, how does Edric’s nonsense have anything to do with me?”
“You met him when he was young. You should have made a good impression on him. You might have even befriended him. At the very least he should have learned to respect you, look up to you, just as all the boys and girls his age should have! Instead you made them resent you, and in turn, me!”
“Everyone resents you, Father. It’s about fucking time you realized that!”
The last of his breath blew out of him as Richard’s fist struck his stomach. Before he could try to breathe again, Richard grabbed his shoulders and flung him to the ground.
Osbern was still too staggered from the first blow to prepare for the fall. His elbow and knee smacked painfully against the stone floor. He crumpled the rest of the way, unwilling to push himself back up. His whole body ached and he struggled to recover his breath. His head spun and yet this awful, inexplicable laughter kept bubbling in his chest. When he recovered enough, a little snort came out again.
Richard grabbed the table for balance and pulled back his leg to kick. Osbern scrambled out of the way in time, but then he sneered back up at his father. He did not feel like himself. He did not know how he had brought himself to speak to Richard that way. For better or worse, Edric must have inspired him. In any case, now that the dam had broken, Osbern could not push back the deluge. “You know it’s not my fault people didn’t come today,” he gasped. “It’s the fact this fucking castle exists in the first place!”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Richard’s voice was low and guttural. The veins of his large forehead bulged over his eyebrows. “This castle will protect them. Once they learn to accept me as—”
“They will not accept us.” Osbern grabbed the edge of the table and pulled himself to his knees. He winced and clutched his stomach, feeling his guts throb inside him. He did not think his father had ever hit him so hard as that before. But tonight, he could take it. Tonight, he felt instilled with unusual power. “Not until we learn to play the role properly.”
“Play what role? What do you mean?”
Osbern didn’t really know. He just knew that somehow, it was important. He was going to say something, but his next breath hurt more than the last, and he curled in on himself, gritting his teeth.
Richard took this as an opportunity to strike with a new argument. “You’re the one who has misjudged his role here, Osbern. You vilify the Anglo-Saxons every chance you get. You ought to be making friends and building trust with them. I taught you to try to be one of them. Instead you cling to your homeland even more fiercely than I do. Do you even remember Normandy? You should not. This is your home. These people are your neighbors. But you treat them like enemies.”
The last of Osbern’s laughter was gone. Instead he felt empty inside, all except for a dull, pulsing ache. He didn’t even know how much of it came from the punch anymore. The pain seemed to rise to his chest, constricting his breath. His nails dug into the table. As he peered over it, he noticed the dark shape of Geoffrey, looming quietly in the corner. Why was he here? To aid in Osbern’s torture? He groaned and lay his forehead against the table, feeling splinters bite his skin.
He closed his eyes and saw the wolf again, rising towards him from the muck.
Play the role properly …
Through fluttering lashes, Osbern looked back at his father.
“You did not teach me to be one of them. You taught me to think like a Norman. You showed me that anyone can be an enemy, and the only living creature a man should trust is his horse. You taught me not to be weak. Is it not weak to make friends of people who despise us? To bend to the wishes of those who cannot train a horse properly, or best us in swordplay?”
“It is not so simple.”
“Yes it is, Father. You are just too fucking stubborn to see it. The Saxons hate you. They will never be your friends, and they will never accept you, any more than the Normans did. No matter where you go, you are just a foolish old man who can’t even walk straight!”
He watched Richard’s hand rise. He prepared himself for the blow. He suspected that this one might surpass even the last. And yet for some reason he stayed there, waiting for it, even welcoming the onslaught.
A smack of flesh marked the sound of Geoffrey catching Richard’s arm. Lord Richard struggled against him, but he could not keep his balance while Geoffrey held him firmly. With a careful flex of his fingers, Geoffrey released him and Richard went staggering backwards. He caught himself against the wall, breathing raggedly.
No one spoke for a time, only struggled to catch their breaths and calm their rapid heartbeats. Osbern stared curiously at Geoffrey, unable to explain why the knight would rise to his defense. Geoffrey only glared through his yellow bangs at Richard, waiting for the large lord to make another move.
“Osbern,” rasped Richard at last. He sounded weak and strained, all anger sapped from his body. “You may feel as if we have fought to make our stance here in Engla-lond. Perhaps it has seemed like a battle to you, and I was wrong if I encouraged you to think that way. But now the castle is finished. The slaves have been sent home. We are ready to help the Anglo-Saxons and return their support. Our rivalry with them is finished.”
“No.” Osbern looked at Geoffrey. In the knight’s pale eyes he saw his own fears reflected, a future of constant struggle and endless bloodshed. Only Geoffrey seemed to look forward to it. “It is only beginning.”
**
**
Clip from
Edric the Wild
(Chapter 1 Excerpt)
Behind them, the sun sank low in the horizon, adding red hues to the interior of the building. A low fire cast flickering light onto the rush-covered floor. Strong winter winds struck the walls, making the tapestries billow and rustle. In the middle of it all sat two groups of armed men. One was Godric’s, who wore a mixture of tunics, light mail, and axes. But at the front end of the table sat Lord Richard FitzScrob and six of his own knights. The Normans were dressed as if for war, covered in chainmail and even steel plates, each of them draped with a sword at his hip.
Tension hung in the air, but it was less taut than Edric had expected. All of the men were drinking and eating, though it was not yet time for dinner. The food seemed to provide a channel for their anger, for they chewed as if to kill a small rodent between their teeth. Edric was glad that they were more preoccupied with their food than their heavy, gleaming weapons. Osgifu herself moved down the table, refilling empty cups and horns.
Godric seemed to calm somewhat as he paused near the threshold, surveying the scene with his one good eye. Edric could still hear the snarl in his voice as he said, “Richard.”
“Hello, Godric.”
Edric peeked around his father’s shoulder to see the Norman lord. He sat hunched over the table, his big chin bobbing as he chewed on a stale piece of bread. The man had a large and awkward form innately, with such unfortunate features as a long bent nose and ridiculous chin. But other parts of his body seemed even more gnarled, twisted as if to make up for his bad feet. Even though he was surely rich enough to afford better accommodations, Richard FitzScrob insisted on walking on his own two feet with as little help as possible—except for the typical occasions of riding a horse. His short hair, cropped close around his ears, only emphasized the hugeness of his skull. He was truly monstrous, thought Edric. And yet his father insisted on being friends with him.
“You are … welcome at my table, of course.” Godric cleared his throat, which remained hoarse despite his better efforts. “But why are you here?”
Richard wiped off his bulbous chin and threw the dirty cloth onto the table top. “I think you know why. Or, at least, your son does.”
Godric stepped aside, revealing the youth in question, and Edric flushed nearly as red as his hair.
Edric resisted the urge to cry I didn’t do it! yet again. Now faced with Richard, he felt bolder than before. He knew he was not guilty. He had nothing to fear from this brutish, evil man. This man was a bully and responsible for sprouting another bully, his son Osbern. Edric stuck up his chin, knowing that he had right on his side. “I have done nothing wrong,” he declared.
Richard planted his fists on the table and pushed himself up. The movement was intimidating, even though the deformed lord swayed while attempting to steady himself on inward-pointing feet. Edric shoved his his chin high while Richard glared at him through black eyebrows. “My son is lying in bed, bruised and bloodied, and one of his knights lies dead in the forest. Someone must pay, and if you are a man of good faith, Edric, you will confess to what you have done.”
Edric paled. He stepped back a little, gulping.
Godric turned on him again. Though he did not hold his axe in his hands, he looked ready enough to hack Edric in two, nonetheless. “What happened, Edric?” The strain in his father’s voice surprised him. In it was both sadness and fear.
Edric slicked his throat with a swallow, but still found it hard to speak. “I … defended myself against Osbern. Nothing more. He swung at me, you see. Ask Leofred. Ask anyone in the tavern that night. He swung at me first, so I dodged, and swung at him in return. Only my blow connected. Should I be punished for my superior aim?”
Richard made a grunting sound and a flinching movement. Godric’s hearth companions all jerked at once, their hands moving towards their swords and axes. But Richard moved no further, so neither did they. Stillness resumed once more, and Edric blew a careful sigh of relief.
“You killed one of my son’s knights,” said Richard.
“I certainly did not. I and my horse-man, Leofred, left immediately after that. We rode home and nothing else happened.”
“An easy lie,” said the Norman. “Osbern says two of his knights followed you out into the woods. It was dark and no one else saw what happened. But it’s obvious.”
Godric’s breath heaved in and out; his shoulders sagged forward. He would not turn to look at his son, though now Edric wished that he would, for surely he would see the surprise and confusion on his own face. Osgifu came over and put her hands around her husband’s arm, which lifted him back up slightly. “How did he die?” he rasped at last. “Could it have been an accident?”
“Stabbed through the neck,” said Richard.
Edric staggered. Suddenly, this whole situation had gone from an inconvenient misunderstanding to something very, very real. A murder had truly taken place. And all of the evidence, or lack thereof, pointed to Edric as the obvious culprit.
“But I did not do it.” He tried to sound calm, confident. That was difficult, now that fear clutched him around the neck. Godric finally looked at him, searching for hope, but finding none, it seemed. “I swear, Father. I didn’t.”
“Can you … prove it?” said Godric.
Edric shrugged helplessly. “How should I know? I wasn’t even there when it happened!”
“I didn’t come here to argue,” snapped Richard. “It is clear to me what happened, and the proper punishment will be made. I came here as a courtesy to you, Godric, so that you would be forewarned of your son’s misbehavior. We will take this to the shire court, and if Edric is found guilty—as I’m sure he will be—he must pay three hundred shillings.”
“Three hundred?” Godric shook his head uncertainly. “The weregald of a free man is only two hundred.”
“Perhaps more,” said Richard. “He was a Norman.”
Edric could practically hear his father’s teeth grinding together. He pretended to like the Normans because King Edward liked the Normans. When King Edward—an Anglo-Saxon by birth—came back from Normandy and took the throne of Engla-lond, he brought several knights and Norman lords with him. King Edward himself had given Richard FitzScrob his great estate in Shrewsbury, as well as one in Herefordshire and Worcestershire. Godric tried to approve of everything King Edward did because he had fought so hard to put King Edward on the throne. But it was difficult for any Anglo-Saxon to approve of the way the Normans planted themselves on the English landscape and seized so much power. Truly enough, Richard could probably demand three hundred shillings for the life of one of his knights, and Godric could do nothing to refute him.
The discussion seemingly over, Ri
chard turned and hobbled away from his seat. His feet were much worse than his son’s, both set of toes practically touching. He had to move somewhat sideways in order to walk at all. Once he had made it to the end of the table, his knights following slowly after, he paused there, his drooping eyes lifting somewhat.
“I hope this does not cause problems between us,” he said.
“Nor do I,” snarled Godric. His muscles were as tight as ropes, Edric could see, even though Osgifu kept her calming hands upon him. “We will right this wrong, I assure you.”
“I hope you do, Godric Kingslayer.”
Godric’s face slackened with shock. Edric felt a shiver of fear. There was no reason Richard would bring up Godric’s old nickname unless to use it as a threat. Seeing that Godric understood his meaning, he hobbled the rest of his way out of the hall.
As Edric listened to their slowly receding footsteps, he considered the possible repercussions of Richard’s parting words. He did not know the full details of Godric’s past, but he did know that Godric had killed King Harold Harefoot. Most nobles, in fact, knew this, though the proof had been discarded, for his father told him Earl Goodwin of Wessex had arranged the murder himself. As Goodwin and his sons possessed as much wealth and power in Engla-lond as King Edward himself, if not more, no one bothered to protest the incident. After Godric slit Harold’s throat, Goodwin had Harold’s head chopped off and his body thrown into the river with no ceremony at all.
Other rumors circulated about Godric “Kingslayer”—rumors Edric was not entirely sure were true. His father had sat him down one day to confess the fact he had killed Harold Harefoot, and he had done so with full disclosure. If he had more to confess, wouldn’t he have done so? Besides, if the rumors were to be believed, Godric had killed as many as four kings. Which was simply ridiculous.