Last Tales of Mercia 1-10

by Jayden Woods

BOURNE, LINCOLNSHIRE

  1054 A.D.

 

 

  After washing his face, Hereward studied his reflection in the water of the stream. His face pleased him, the jaw broad and sturdy, the lips thick, the nose gently curved, and his pale eyes sparkling with slightly different shades of blue and gray. His sandy hair fell in a sleek swoop to his shoulders. Though only eighteen, he already stood as tall as most older men and his bare shoulders spread thickly with muscle. He had an appearance to make women swoon and men run in terror. He grinned with satisfaction.

  Then he recalled that lately, people had been calling him the terror of the city of Bourne, and maybe all of Lincolnshire. They tired of his pranks and brawling. Hereward believed that such complaints arose out of envy. They feared that one day he would grow up to become more powerful than his father. And perhaps his parents feared this, too. For rather than reward him for his victories, they only punished him—which made Hereward even more determined to act out against them.

  His reflection shattered as the water splashed. Hereward glanced around for the culprit. Further down the stream, some members of Hereward’s gang played in the water, but they were not close enough to be the source of the disturbance. Altogether, about twenty young men languished with Hereward by the babbling stream. Ash and elm trees spotted the surrounding fields, yielding swathes of shadow across the bright green grass. A few of the boys had taken off their tunics to bask in the warm summer sunshine. Others cooled their skin in the waters of the stream. The rest tried to find naps in the shade of the trees. Like Hereward, many of their heads still ached from drinking too much the night before, so they covered their eyes and searched for oblivion.

  Hereward could now discern a thrown rock sinking to the bottom of the riverbed; someone had thrown it at him, thus causing the splash. Suspecting one of his comrades of foul play, Hereward turned to identify an unexpected visitor, Martin, as the culprit. The tall, lanky fellow already had another rock poised for throwing.

  Hereward stood and roared with anger. “Martin!”

  Martin “Lightfoot,” a man whose long legs were both fast and silent, must have sneaked past the wine-sick boys easily. He shouldn’t be here. Eager to atone for their negligence, a few of the fellows pounced on Martin, grabbing his fancy tunic of red linen and tugging at his dagger-laden belt.

  Martin probably could have run away from the boys if he wished. Instead he endured their rough handling, meeting Hereward’s scowl with a shameless smile. The expression came out looking like an uncomfortable distortion of his long, gangly features.

  “Go home, Martin,” snarled Hereward. “I’ve no need of my parent’s spy.”

  “And I’ve no need of a pompous bully,” said the fleet-footed gentleman. “Nonetheless, Lord Leofric wanted me to come here and give you a warning. He heard about your fight last night with poor Eadwig. Apparently, you bashed the man’s face so brutally both his eyes are swollen shut and he hasn’t climbed out of his bed this morning.”

  “It was a fair fight,” said Hereward, though he could hardly remember it. In truth, he had probably been the one at a disadvantage, for he was so besotted with drink at the time. A few of his comrades echoed their agreement.

  “In any case, if you piss on the pride of a single more Bourne-man, your father will ensure you can never do it again. For now, Lord Leofric commands that you and all of your companions go home, not to reconvene until further notice.”

  “Not to reconvene, eh?” Hereward swaggered closer, balling up one fist and considering where to place it on Martin’s body. Unfortunately, his knuckles still hurt from last night.

  “Peace, Master Hereward.” Martin maintained his smug smile. “I am only the messenger. And if you wish to give your father a message in return, I will gladly carry it for you.”

  Hereward considered this, his fingers unwinding. He glanced around at his comrades. They all looked uneasy, for a threat from Lord Leofric—normally a cool-tempered man—was no laughing matter. “In that case, tell Father we have followed his wishes. We will not cause trouble here again any time soon.”

  “If that’s true, then God bless you, my lord. However, I require convincing. I must bear the blame if my message is false. You understand.” His smile spread wider, revealing some yellowed teeth.

  Hereward sighed and searched for his belt, discarded by the river with his tunic. On it, he found an unfamiliar pouch—no doubt taken from Eadwig the night before. He weighed its contents, took a few coins for himself, then threw the rest to Martin. Martin deftly freed one of his arms to catch it, revealing he might have escaped at any moment if he chose.

  “And how will I explain your absence?” asked Martin, dropping the purse into his tunic.

  “Tell him I went hunting and I want to be alone for awhile.”

  “Very well. Happy hunting, then.” Without further ado, Martin slipped from his captors and ran off, his long legs a blur across the grass.

  Martin’s message should have left Hereward furious, but in fact he felt liberated. For a long time he had suffered his mother’s and father’s wavering disapproval and insufficient reprimands. Now that they gave him no other choice, he would show them he could break free of their yanking leash.

  Hereward looked over his gang and his heart stirred with pride. These boys would follow him anywhere and do whatever he asked of them. They were not yet housecarls in title, but someday they would be, and when that day came, Hereward would indeed surpass his father in the possession of men’s loyalty.

  “Listen up, boys!” His robust voice swept forcefully across the field. “I have an idea.”

  The boys gathered closer, hanging on to Hereward’s every word despite their throbbing heads.

  “Bourne may be tired of me, but I’m even more tired of Bourne,” he declared. “Father doesn’t understand me. The people here don’t understand us. We’re not just a group of young men looking for fun and games. We are warriors, born to lead our country to a better future. And right now, this town is blind to the bigger events happening outside our shire. Perhaps it’s time we ventured out to show them what we’re really capable of.”

  Some of the boys exchanged uncertain glances. To his surprise, Hereward felt a shred of anxiety winding through his own limbs. The idea of venturing beyond Lincolnshire—outside the protection of Hereward’s family—was new and frightening. It was also exhilarating. But he had hoped the boys’ excitement would feed his own courage.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Osric, one of Hereward’s closest companions. The pale, freckled lad chewed on a piece of grass while twirling a knife in his hands.

  “We’ve all heard about the Normans causing trouble, especially in the west, closer to Wales. I hear they are actually building castles there like they do in their country.”

  “Not the Normans!” Chubby Dudda’s voice squeaked with dismay and the awkwardness of his age, stuck somewhere between boyhood and manhood. A few other boys laughed, but the mirth was short-lived, because they all awaited Hereward’s response.

  “Why not the Normans?” roared Hereward. “They’re giving our countrymen trouble. So we’re going to give them some trouble in return. Do you remember Queen Emma’s prophecy, God rest her soul? She said that if the Normans built their castles in Engla-lond, our country’s lands would drown in blood. We can’t sit idly by and let that happen!”

  He expected cheers and whole-hearted applause. Instead, a single, soft voice rang loudly through the silence.

  “Don’t do it, brother.”

  Hereward turned with a sinking heart to his younger sibling rising from the ground. Few people would ever guess the two boys were brothers; Wilburh had thick, ashy hair, bright blue eyes, and a skinny frame. More importantly, Wilburh had a gentle temperament like their father and a respect for authority. Most people found it strange—including Hereward—that the nicer boy chose to follow Hereward’s gang. Sometimes, Hereward suffered guilt at the notion Wilburh might simply look up to h
is older brother, even if most people considered Hereward a bad influence.

  Hereward shook his head of such thoughts, for guilt did not become him. He could not be blamed for his brother’s choices. He could only restrict them somewhat. “You stay here, Wilburh. I didn’t want you coming, anyway.”

  Wilburh flushed red at the back-handed insult. Nonetheless he stood his ground. “Don’t you remember what happened a few years ago when some English-men quarreled with a Norman lord? King Edward wanted them punished, and when Earl Goodwin refused, he nearly started a war.”

  The dismay that spread through the group felt palpable. Hereward hadn’t thought about that, himself. Insulting the Normans was even more dangerous than he’d expected. But that also made the prospect more enticing. “So we’re to bow down to them like cowards? This is what I’m talking about, boys. We need to show them we’re not afraid!”

  “What are we going to do?” repeated Osric, sinking his dagger into the dirt.

  “I’m not sure yet,” snapped Hereward testily. Why must they always need specifics? “First we’re just going to take a look at one of their fucking castles. Then show them it’s not so easy to build on Saxon soil.”

  “Please, don’t!” The desperation in Wilburh’s voice was almost embarrassing. “Father will be furious!”

  “I said go home, Wilburh. And anyone else here who doesn’t have the balls for this mission, run home now and hide under your mother’s skirts.”

  A long silence stretched after his words. Hereward congratulated himself for wording his challenge in such a way that no one would dare refuse.

  Then, to Hereward’s shock, a few boys got up and moved towards Wilburh. They would not meet Hereward’s gaze. A few more bowed their heads in shame, then got up to join the first group. A few became a dozen. Hereward could not believe that so many people would abandon him now, in the face of his most ambitious excursion. Soon there were only eight left still standing with Hereward.

  “Cowards!” he hissed to the backs of the traitors.

  “No. We’re the smart ones here,” said Wilburh.

  Hereward scoffed. But he regretted that he had acted with such hostility, for the group now felt irreparably severed. He still wanted these boys to be a part of his gang when he returned. So he tried to lighten his tone when he said, “You’re all going to be so jealous when we get home with stories that will spread the ladies’ legs open.”

  Wilburh frowned back at him, unable to come up with a good retort, as he knew little of such things. Then he turned and started to walk away. Hereward’s traitors made to follow.

  “You’ll regret this!” cried Hereward. “You’ll see!”

  But soon Wilburh and his new companions walked beyond hearing range, and Hereward stood alone with his smaller, nervous crew.

  “When are we going to leave?” asked Dudda. His presence surprised Hereward, who would have expected the pudgy teenager to be among the first to flee. Perhaps Dudda feared disappointing Hereward more than facing some Normans.

  “Right away,” said Hereward.

  “On foot?” Osric sheathed his dagger and stretched his legs in preparation.

  “No. It’s a long way.” He thought about it a moment. “I know a stable nearby where we can borrow some horses. But we should wait until nightfall.”

  Dudda’s face fell. “By ‘borrow,’ you mean …?”

  Hereward grinned and smacked Dudda on the back. “It’s still called borrowing if we return them later.”