by Jayden Woods
*
In the morning, the Normans helped themselves to more of Elwyna and Dumbun’s precious food. Elwyna felt sick to her stomach as she watched Drogo consume a loaf of bread she had acquired when selling her blanket, and which she had hoped to make last a whole week.
Meanwhile, the look on Dumbun’s face frightened her. He had always been a gentle and calm man. But that morning, he glared at Drogo as if his eyes could throw daggers. His hand gripped the dirk on his belt until his knuckles turned white.
Silent or not, Dumbun’s behavior finally drew the Normans’ attention.
Sir Fulbert cleared his throat and addressed the Anglo-Saxon directly. “So, Dumbun, you may not speak, but I take it you can understand me, oui?”
Still gritting his teeth, Dumbun nodded reluctantly.
“Good. You must know these woods well. I want you to show me around today. I have already seen plenty of trees to use. The trick is finding places they can be conveniently chopped down. Can you show me such places?”
Dumbun’s face twisted with concern. He looked at Elwyna.
“How many trees do you plan to chop down?” she asked for him.
“As many as we like. We’ll need wood to build some of the basic foundations of Richard’s Castle until we get enough stone to replace it. And we’ll start by building houses in the bailey, for the workers and all of Richard’s men.”
Elwyna gulped. She didn’t quite understand what a castle looked like. But she was starting to imagine it as rather large. “Sounds like you’ll use a lot of trees. How will the two of you handle them all?”
“Us?” Sir Fulbert laughed. “We’ll send slaves to cut down the woods, once we’ve decided where to do it.”
Despite the winter chill, Elwyna felt sweat bead on her brow. These two Normans wouldn’t just cut down some trees and be on their way. They would start tearing down the entire forest. And they would probably come back to this cabin whenever they pleased to survey the destruction.
Sir Fulbert watched her face closely. “You said your name was Elwyna, oui?”
She gave a terse nod.
“Elwyna. What is your … status?”
She wiped her forehead, hoping to hide the fear in her eyes. “Well, I’m a free woman.”
“Oh? But you don’t own this land. Or we would have known about it.”
She twisted her skirt in her fingers.
“Do you pay rent?” Fulbert pressed, dabbing his lips with a rag.
Elwyna’s silence was answer enough.
“That is going to change now. And you’d better be happy that is the only thing changing.” He threw the rag onto the floor and stood up.
Elwyna knew better than to argue. She remained sitting there, nails digging into her dress, afraid to look at anyone.
“Let’s go, Dumbun,” said Sir Fulbert.
Dumbun stood up, but didn’t go anywhere. He was looking at Drogo, who still sat on the floor.
“Drogo’s not feeling well,” said the older knight. “He’ll stay here.”
Elwyna’s heart nearly leapt from her chest. Before she had a plan, she scrambled to her feet as well. “I should come with you. In fact, with my help you don’t have to go anywhere at all. I can tell you what you need to know.”
“I’ll need to see it. And your help won’t be necessary.”
Dumbun walked over to the bed and his pulled his axe out from under it. For a moment he just gripped it, the iron gleaming as he glared at the Normans.
“I’ll hold onto that, merci.” Sir Fulbert strode forward and wrenched the weapon from Dumbun’s grip.
Elwyna’s mind raced. She had to think of something, not only for her own sake, but Dumbun’s. She feared he would never allow himself to leave her here with Drogo. “In that case,” she said, “I hope you’ll excuse me. I have to run to town.”
“Oh?” The knight blinked at her with genuine surprise.
“Yes. You see, we’re nearly out of food, except for the deer … which I intend to trade.”
The Normans had already glimpsed under her floorboards and seen the truth of this. As soon as Fulbert considered it, he needed no more convincing.
“You’re right. Drogo and I have some more food with us, but …” He reached into his purse and pulled out a coin. Her shock nearly kept her from catching it when he tossed it her direction. “While you’re there, get us some wine, and another loaf of bread.”
For a moment, she felt torn between relief that her ploy had worked and dismay that they might stay another night. Then Drogo got up and yelled at Sir Fulbert in Norman.
Elwyna listened to them argue with an increasing sense of hope. Drogo served the other knight; he would have to do whatever Sir Fulbert told him. Her eyes met Dumbun’s and she tried to give him a reassuring smile. She did not yet know what she would do when she got to town. But she would think of something.
Sir Fulbert stopped arguing with the squire to ask Elwyna, “Can you ride a horse?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Then take Drogo’s. And make sure you’re back by tonight.”
Elwyna nodded, not sure how to interpret this. Drogo seemed content now. Would this night be a repeat of the last? Or worse?
She would do herself no favors by standing here and worrying. She needed to accept this small blessing and act on it. “Thank you for letting me use your horse,” she said.
“Not for long,” he snapped. Then he squeezed the axe in his grip, as if to make a point.
She collected a bag of deer meat from the cold ground and hurried on her way. She understood Fulbert’s silent warning completely. If she did anything wayward, Dumbun would be the one to pay the price.
Drogo’s horse, a perky stallion, seemed grateful for a reason to move his legs about. He trotted eagerly as soon as Elwyna released him from the tree and mounted him. She took the blanket from his back and wrapped it around herself like a cloak. Snow shook from his flank as he bounded forward, cracking the icy twigs and grass under his hooves. Together they cut through the golden beams of sunlight that split apart the forest and wove their way through the trees.
As Elwyna approached Shrewsbury, she wondered if she was only delaying the inevitable. What could she possibly do during a quick trip to town that would solve her and Dumbun’s problem? She knew little of current politics, but it seemed evident enough that these Norman men possessed great influence, and once they established their large castle, they would possess even more. What could she do to make them leave her alone?
An idea occurred to her suddenly, one she realized had been lurking under the surface all the while but she had been too afraid to acknowledge until she considered all other options.
Godric.
Her ex-husband’s name sent a shudder through her body, both unsettling and invigorating. She tried often not to think about him—not to wonder about how he had hid his true nature from her for so many years. He had never wanted to talk to her about his life before their marriage—about the fact he was the son of a terrible traitor, or the fact he had spent his early manhood under the wing of Thorkell the Tall and then served as a house-carl for King Canute himself. The implications of his actions beyond that terrified her even further, but also gave her hope. She sensed that Godric had something to do with the mysterious illness that afflicted King Canute until his death. For many years, Godric bribed the shire reeve to keep Godric’s presence in Shrewsbury a secret from the king.
She knew that Godric was dangerous. She knew that he did not fear authority. She knew he had committed crimes in the past without ever paying the price. And she knew that he might be the only person who could help her out of this problem.
Her dread filled up her belly like a meal of rotten food, but she gritted her teeth and endured it and kept riding in the direction of Godric’s thegndom. She did not know what Godric would think of her after all these years. And worse, she did not know what her own sister would think of her—Godric’s current wife. Elwyna�
�s hands clenched around the horse’s reins as she recalled that Godric had always loved Osgifu since before he married Elwyna. The younger sister had been a necessary alternative for him when Osgifu joined a nunnery. And now Elwyna would go crawling back to them for help.
As if sensing her reluctance, the horse slowed his pace beneath her. They trotted onto a worn road near Shrewsbury and Elwyna noticed the first few farms through the thinning trees. Her heart stuck in her throat. Normally when she went to town, she avoided Shrewsbury to minimize the risk of meeting someone who recognized her. The frigid wind gusted through the rips of her dress, and she huddled more deeply in the horse’s blanket.
She spotted a man on foot walking towards her and sank even further into the cloth. She wanted to ignore him, to pretend she did not even see him. But despite herself, she could not pull her eyes away; the man wore such brightly colored clothes they demanded her attention. She tried to study him discreetly, noting the bright white fur of his boots, the blue of his trousers, and the golden yellow of his cloak. Then she looked into his face.
She jolted. She would never forget that slender, smiling face, the trimmed blond beard, the bright green eyes. If she still had any doubts, she heard him whistling a merry tune as he walked, and quite skillfully at that. For he was one of Godric’s dearest friends, a minstrel from the south, and he was the very man who had discovered Elwyna’s affair with Dumbun.
Sigurd stopped and blinked back at her. His whistling ceased. And then Elwyna knew she had been caught.
She could have kicked her horse and run away from him. She might have escaped so quickly that he would doubt himself later for thinking he saw her and attribute it all to a daydream. But something froze her to the spot, and even her horse drew to a stop.
“Elwyna?”
She did not reply for awhile. She listened to the wind howl around them and resisted the urge to explain herself. She regretted nothing—or at least she needed desperately to believe she didn’t, and therefore she refused to apologize. She would let him speak first, or never speak at all.
He cleared his throat. He glanced around the road to make sure no one else was around. When at last he broke the silence, even his sweet minstrel voice came out hoarse. “What brings you back to Shrewsbury?”
“I need to speak with Godric.”
She thought she would shock him into compliance with her courage and audacity. Instead he gawked and cried, “And why on earth would you do that?”
She bowed her head, defeated. Her voice came out so weak it was a wonder he understood her. “I need his help.”
“Elwyna ... I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“And how would you know?” She glared at him maliciously. “Why are you in Shrewsbury, anyway? Do you live with Godric now? You two always seemed very close.”
She wasn’t even sure what she was implying, exactly. But Sigurd’s face turned as red as beets, and the laughter from his throat sounded nervous. “Oh, well, I just live nearby. You know Godric. Not really the type for ’close’ companionship. The only exception is Osgifu.”
By avoiding one topic, he had stumbled onto an even more awkward subject. But Elwyna knew he was wrong. She had glimpsed the way Godric opened up to Sigurd like no one else. She suspected that Godric was only closer to Osgifu than Sigurd in one particular way. But she took a deep breath and decided to let that go. “In any case, I need to see him. Good day, Sigurd.”
She nudged her horse, but Sigurd reached out and grabbed the reins. She couldn’t help but notice the panic glinting in his eyes, the genuine concern that drew his face into an uncharacteristic frown. Despite everything, he seemed to care about her situation—perhaps because he was partially to blame for it. “Elwyna, going to see Godric—and therefore your sister—would be like stirring up a hornet’s nest. Do you really want to do that?’
“I have no other choice.” She tried to pull the reins away from him, but the attempt was half-hearted.
“What would you have him do? Kill someone for you?”
Elwyna felt a strange calm settle over her. At first she didn’t know why. Then she realized that Sigurd had just confirmed what she had always suspected, but never really known. He had answered the question about Godric that always dug into her mind like a splinter she couldn’t remove. And now she understood. “I suppose so,” she said quietly. “After all, that’s what he does. Isn’t it.”
It wasn’t a question. Sigurd bowed his head, realizing the effect of his words too late. “Listen,” he rasped. “Godric’s done with all that, or at least he wants to be. And even if I’m wrong ... I will not let you prove it.”
The last of Elwyna’s hope dissolved. The odds of getting Godric to help her were already against her. If Sigurd opposed her, too, then she stood no chance at all. Against her will, icy tears pricked her eyes. Her anger rose up, a vile taste in her mouth, and had nowhere to go but towards the man in front of her. “Then know that you are truly responsible for ruining my life.”
She wrenched the reins again, this time successfully turning her horse about. Only the pain in Sigurd’s voice stopped her.
“Elwyna. Wait.”
She did not look at him, only waited.
“I live not far from here. At least let me give you something to eat.”
She wanted to refuse him, for the sake of her own pride, and due to the fact noon had passed and every remaining hour of the day was precious. But her stomach clenched, its emptiness stabbing her, and she nodded weakly in response.
As Sigurd led her to his home, she told him in full of her plight. The story shamed her, revealing the depths of her poverty and loneliness. But Sigurd listened raptly, and she found herself grateful for a sympathetic ear, despite her past with its owner. He made sounds of disgust as he listened to the way the Normans treated her. When she confessed her fears that Drogo would rape her, the blood drained from Sigurd’s face.
He had a small but cozy cabin on the edge of a pasture. He lit the fire and gave her warm stew. He even told her he would save her a trip to town and trade with her. He gave her wine and bread in exchange for some meat, then told her to keep the Normans’ coin for herself. Then he opened the floorboards and rummaged through his belongings without explaining why. She watched curiously while sipping her stew.
At last he emerged with a tiny pouch, and as he held it up to the firelight, his hands trembled.
“What’s that?” she asked at last.
“A possible solution.” He looked at her gravely. “Depending on how desperate you are.”
“Desperate enough.”
He nodded and set down the pouch on the floor beside her. “Pour this into the Norman’s wine. And he’ll never bother you again.”
Elwyna gulped. She had hoped Godric might kill for her. Why not gather her courage and do the deed herself? Nonetheless, the thought sent chills down her back. “One of them, Sir Fulbert ... he’s not such a bad man.”
Sigurd waved his fingers frantically, as if to sever his ties to the issue. “Use it as you will. It’s my gift to you.” He already seemed eager to forget about it.
Elwyna did not have that luxury. “If I only kill one of them ... how obvious will it be that he died of poison?”
“Obvious enough,” said Sigurd grimly. “If you use all of that, he will die quickly. Less, and he will be sick for a few hours—vomiting and such—before he succumbs. He may have trouble breathing or grow very confused before the end.” He wiped his brow, as if to push away a disturbing memory. “Either way, I imagine you will look very suspicious. I leave the choice to you.”
She nodded, then picked up the pouch. The steadiness of her fingers surprised her. “Thank you, Sigurd.”