by Jayden Woods
*
She returned to the cabin just as the sun touched the horizon. Before she dismounted, her hand brushed the tiny pouch against her dress. Its presence lent her courage. She didn’t have a plan yet. But at least she had an option.
The men remained strangely quiet as she walked inside and handed out food. Dumbun looked at her with a mixture of relief and fear. She hoped he detected the faint reassurance in her eyes as she gave him a small piece of bread. Drogo and Sir Fulbert talked for a while in Norman and paid her little heed at first—or at least made it seem that way. But Elwyna caught Drogo’s gaze pinning her momentarily. Now, she not only saw lust in his eyes; she saw anger. She wondered which was worse.
“Pour me some wine, then,” said Sir Fulbert.
Elwyna’s heart raced as she opened the generous cask from Sigurd and poured the first cup.
“Moi aussi,” said Drogo, and held up a horn from his belt.
Her trembling hands gave Fulbert his cup and took Drogo’s horn. She didn’t want to kill both of them. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to kill anyone. Perhaps she should not use the poison at all. What if she made a mistake? Pouring all the powder into Drogo’s horn would be difficult to hide. Pouring it into the entire cask would be very risky, and she doubted it would successfully kill anyone. What if Dumbun tried to drink some? After all, he certainly deserved wine more than these Normans did.
She poured Drogo’s wine and handed it back to him. As she did, he closed his fingers around hers, smirking. She yanked her hand away.
Dumbun came over to pour his own cup. As he did, he reached up to grip her shoulder. Elwyna found herself leaning against him and clutching his clothes. She couldn’t help herself. Suddenly, she imagined running off with him again, leaving this cabin, starting all over like they had before. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe they stood a good chance.
Then Fulbert cleared his throat and said, “Dumbun. There’s something else I want you to show me. Let’s go outside.”
Elwyna’s fingers dug more deeply into Dumbun’s shirt, even as she turned to snap at Fulbert. “That’s ridiculous! It’s almost nightfall!”
The explosion of pain across her cheek seemed to come from nowhere at first. Her skull rattled and her teeth knocked together. Then she saw the blur of Fulbert’s hand coming to a stop, remembered the sound of flesh smacking against flesh, and realized he had struck her—hard.
For a moment, Dumbun’s grip on her was the only reason Elwyna remained standing. Then Dumbun lunged forward, releasing her to stagger in place. Her vision spun, but she glimpsed both of Dumbun’s hands reaching for Fulbert. She heard the sound of a sword scraping out of its scabbard. She saw the flash of Drogo’s blade against the firelight. Then Dumbun lurched to a halt.
Fulbert leaned down towards Elwyna, jamming his finger close to her face. “You don’t tell me what to do,” hissed the knight, “You don’t decide anything at all. The sooner you both realize that, the better we can all get along.”
He grabbed Dumbun fiercely, then shoved him towards the door. “Outside!” The Norman still had Dumbun’s axe against his belt. And even if they were equally equipped, Elwyna doubted Dumbun could do anything against the knight, who was clearly a seasoned warrior. She didn’t want him to try. So she caught her lover’s gaze one more time and said, desperately, “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
Sir Fulbert grumbled to himself in Norman, then pushed Dumbun over the threshold. Together they went outside, and Fulbert shut the door behind them.
For a time Elwyna stood unmoving, cradling her throbbing cheek, and she nearly succumbed to her fate. She wondered if Fulbert even had a right to be angry. After all, he could have punished her for theft or something like it. These Normans could have killed her and Dumbun outright in order to take this little cabin and save themselves the trouble of dealing with two impoverished Saxons.
Ironically, it was one small mercy given to her by Drogo that rekindled her hopes of escape. The Norman poured her a cup of wine and handed it over.
As she took it, she dared meeting the man’s eyes. She detected a hint of loneliness beneath the cloud of greed.
“Thank you,” she said.
He replied in Norman, and though she couldn’t understand him, his tone suggested a half-hearted attempt to reassure her. The way his eyes crawled down her body, however, failed to comfort her.
Drogo finished his wine and set down his horn. He walked over to the fire, added a log, and stoked the embers. Flames flared over the wood and sent a surge of heat through the cabin. Drogo unfastened the heavy belt from his tunic and set it on the floor.
Elwyna acted quickly. She picked up his his horn and upturned the pouch of powder. Then she poured the wine on top of it. She watched the dust swirl into the burgundy liquid and vanish.
When he turned back around, Elwyna stood nearby, handing him his horn of wine while continuing to sip from her cup. He grinned and drank.
Elwyna turned away to hide the shock on her face. She had done it. She had poisoned him. Now she need only wait.
She walked slowly so as not to rouse his concern. She set down her cup of wine. Then, still turned away from him, she took off the belt from her dress. She reached up and untied her hair, letting the red waves fall down her neck.
She heard Drogo gulping his wine hastily. She thanked God for the fact this man drank from a horn, which needed to be emptied before he set it down. Indeed, she heard it give a hollow echo as it clunked onto the floor. Her heart leapt into her throat. Then Drogo approached her from behind and wrapped his arms around her.
She was too overwhelmed to move, much less put up a fight, as he kissed her neck and pulled at her dress. She seemed to watch herself from afar as she waited for it all to be over. She knew that he touched her; that if she thought about it too much, she would panic. So she pretended as if it happened to someone else, barely listening through the roar in her ears, until he gagged and fell backward.
Even then, she remained still for a time. She returned to her body slowly. She heard him wheezing and thrashing. Finally, she turned to look.
As Sigurd had promised, such a large dose of the poison killed Drogo quickly. He struggled to draw one more breath and failed. Her stomach curdled as she watched one last surge of life flare through his eyes—she saw rage, she saw longing, she saw regret—before the light faded out them.
And then he died.
After that, Elwyna felt inexplicably calm. The deed was done. The man was dead. Now she simply had to deal with it.
She wiped the spittle from his mouth. She readjusted his clothes. Then she sat down in a corner and considered what to do next. She could say she had no idea what happened to him. Perhaps he had a horrible illness; perhaps Fulbert should run away or he would get sick, too. She would think of something.
She had run away from the law once and she could do it again. She did not need society. She did not need the mercy of two Norman bullies. She did not even need a husband or children. She would live life freely and without consequences, for surely she and Dumbun deserved to, after all they had endured.
Satisfied with the possibilities, Elwyna stood up. She pulled up her dress enough to cover herself, but remained disheveled for the sake of appearances. Then she walked to the door.
**
4
Last Tales of Mercia 4:
RALPH THE KNIGHT
(back to Table of Contents)
*
“And [the king’s council] declared Archbishop Robert utterly an outlaw, and all the Frenchmen, because they had made most of the difference between Godwin, the earl, and the king.”
—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, Entry For Year 1052