by Jayden Woods
Last Tales of Mercia 9:
Sigurd the Gleeman
Jayden Woods
Copyright 2012 Jayden Woods
Edited by Malcolm Pierce
Cover design based on the Bayeux Tapestry
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The ten Last Tales of Mercia are stand-alone short stories featuring real historical figures and characters from the Sons of Mercia series. You may read them independently as quick glimpses into an ancient world, or as a preface to the novel, Edric the Wild. For more news and updates on the Sons of Mercia series, visit www.jaydenwoods.com.
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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 when 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.