by Jayden Woods
*
Lord Alfric possessed the nicest estate Sigurd had visited in a very long while. The town and surrounding fields of Wenlock were astonishingly beautiful, full of gnarled old trees that whispered in the breeze, bright purple flowers that glowed in the sunlight, and silvery limestone rocks that formed an escarpment along the road. On the lands of Alfric’s manor, long stretches of golden or green fields could be seen wherever one looked, save for a wild forest that flanked the buildings of the manor. Far in the distance one could spot the large hill called the Wrekin. Amidst such a long stretch of plains, the large hill looked somehow god-like, as if some important force of nature had put it there for a divine purpose. Sigurd smiled to himself, thinking of a story that might entertain Lord Alfric.
The manor itself boasted a lavish dining hall, full of beautiful tapestries, freshly strewn rushes, sparkling candelabras, and a sweet fire of burning cherry wood. Alfric had not been lying about a feast, either. Sigurd could not remember the last time he saw so much food on a table, save for his last visit to the Lundenburg palace. He tried to keep himself from drooling at the bowls of plums and cherries, platters of fowl and roasted pig, honeyed bread and even a bowl of salt. What further surprised him was that he and Alfric were the only two people around to eat it.
“I must admit,” said Sigurd. “When you said you would prepare a feast, I expected a lot more participants!”
Alfric smiled as he took a seat at the head of the table. He motioned for Sigurd to take the chair just next to him. “Now that would be foolish of me,” said the lord, “to hire a minstrel for a large audience when I had not yet seen his performance.”
Sigurd blushed self-consciously as he sat. He had not meant to sound presumptuous. But when he saw the kind smile on Alfric’s face, he realized the lord was just toying with him.
“Would you like me to play something now, my lord?”
“Please, no need for that yet. Have something to eat first.”
Sigurd gladly helped himself to the food, but grew impatient for his inevitable performance as a minstrel. In truth, he both feared and looked forward to it. He didn’t know whether he would be so out of practice that he’d make a fool of himself, or whether all of his old habits would come back to him naturally and make him feel like his old self again. More than anything, he just wanted to get it all over with.
He also felt rather intimidated by the largeness of the hall and its relative lack of activity. Save for one servant who walked in and out of the room to refill their goblets, not another person was in sight. The only sounds to be heard were the crackling of the fire and the chink of the two men’s dishware.
“Does your family live here with you?”
“My only family is my brothers, sisters, and ancestors,” said Alfric. “So … no.”
“I see.” Sigurd studied him curiously. “And you said you are of the Cild family. Should I take that to mean you are a relative of Eadric Streona?”
Alfric stiffened. Considering that Eadric Streona was remembered as the grandest traitor of the century, this could hardly be taken as a compliment. “He was my uncle. What of it?”
“Please, I will not hold it against you.” Sigurd laughed despite himself. “It so happens that my own dearest friend is the bastard son of Eadric Streona. Thegn Godric. I am surprised you two don’t know each other.”
“I know of him.” Alfric frowned. “I do not care for the rumors about him. I heard from Goodwin himself that Godric helped kill Harold Harefoot, so I know that much is true. A nasty business, all of it.”
“Yes, very nasty.” Sigurd could not help but be amused by Alfric’s reaction. The handsome lord had a perfect home, a pristine appearance, and a flawless array of food. No doubt he liked everything in his life to be nice and orderly. The way his lip curled at the thought of a murder made him somewhat less intimidating and a little bit adorable.
For the second time, Sigurd allowed himself to admire Alfric’s simultaneously masculine and beautiful appearance. He wore a tunic that opened low beneath his neck, revealing a soft flush of golden hairs across his chest. The short sleeves allowed a generous view of his arms, sloping from his broad shoulders to the table. Unlike Godric, this man’s skin was pure and free of imperfections such as scars. His muscles were softer, elegantly curved from his forearms to his hands. He had exceptional hands, thick and robust, the sharp edges decorated with flowing veins as if with fine embroidery.
Sigurd looked back up and noticed Alfric staring back at him. The knowing smile he returned sent Sigurd’s heart fluttering.
“I, uh … I wonder if you’ve heard the story of the Wrekin?” asked Sigurd quickly. “That lovely hill, just beyond your doorstep?”
“Well, I suppose I haven’t heard your version of it.” Alfric bit down on a juicy cherry.
“Then I must certainly enlighten you,” said Sigurd. “For you may not know this, but in Wales, amongst the towering mountains and jagged cliffs, there lives a particularly mean race of giants.”
“Oh does there?” Alfric leaned back in his chair and folded his hands before him, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
“There does indeed,” said Sigurd. “The reeve of Shrewsbury many years ago did not know about the giants of Wales, either. This reeve was a greedy man who seized lands and riches wherever he could, and when he ran out of opportunities in his local country, he decided to venture into Wales for some plundering.”
“Sounds a bit like my own uncle, Eadric Streona,” chuckled Alfric.
“Certainly, the two were not unlike. In fact, I wonder if this reeve was one of Eadric’s own ancestors. In any case, the reeve ventured far enough into Wales that he ran into one of the great mountain giants. The giant guarded a great treasure, but while he was sleeping, the reeve of Shrewsbury stole away with it! When the giant awoke he was furious. He chased the reeve and his men a short way but lost track of them in the thick of the forests. For a time he was despondent and didn’t know what to do without his treasure. So the giant turned to vengeance as a cure for his sadness. He took a great shovel and scooped out a big pile of earth with it. Then he made for Shrewsbury. He knew that Shrewsbury depended on the River Severn for its water, so the giant planned to dump the earth into the river and dam it up forever.
“Unfortunately for the giant, the path to Shrewsbury was longer than he expected. He felt very exhausted by the time he reached the lands of Wellington just near here. Out of breath, he asked a local blacksmith, ‘How far to Shrewsbury?’ The blacksmith could see that the giant meant trouble, and he worried what the giant would do once he got there. Even though Shrewsbury was not so far away, the blacksmith replied, ‘You’ve days and days to go yet!’
“So the giant let out a cry of rage and dumped the earth onto the plains just before him. Then he turned around and stormed back home. This pile of earth became the known as the Wrekin, and there it has remained ever since.”
Alfric grinned from ear to ear and dabbed his lips with a cloth. “If only I had known I lived next to a giant’s own dirt-heap. I would be charging my tenants higher rent!”
Alfric’s pleasure made Sigurd’s heart swell with satisfaction. He had pieced his own version of the story together on the spot, having heard various Northmen speak of the hill in such a fashion. Maybe he had not lost his talents, after all. “Perhaps my lord would like to hear a song as he finishes his meal?”
“Very well.” Alfric leaned forward to take a slow sip of wine. “Play me something, Sigurd.”
Sigurd happily complied, getting up from the table and taking hold of his harp. He set the small instrument against his shoulder and considered what to play.
“Something romantic,” said Alfric.
Sigurd’s cheeks warmed, but he could not resist a small smile as his fingers plucked the first string.
Playing the tune brought him bittersweet memories. Perhaps he only considered the song romantic because he had played it while on a journey south with Godric. Godric had
been very happy at the time, perhaps as happy as Sigurd had ever seen him—other than when he was with his Osgifu. Godric had been on his way to visit Canute’s deathbed, and little filled him with more joy than that. Sigurd remembered one particular night when Sigurd had played this song in an inn and Godric sat watching from a table. There had been something in Godric’s eye that night, a depth of affection Sigurd had never seen there before.
Later on, as they lay in their beds, Godric had asked, “Don’t you hope to find a woman and settle down sometime, Sigurd?”
“Oh, I’ve found a few good women.” He had hesitated, his heart hammering against his ribs. He thought Godric would not have asked that question without a reason. “And a few men as well, I might add. More of the latter ... in fact.”
Godric had not risen to the bait; in fact he had said nothing at all. Sigurd should have known he would not. Godric could be such a blind damn fool. He would not even let himself think of the possibility that he might ever find solace in—
A string of his harp twanged as he felt something brush the back of his arm. In the midst of his reverie, he had failed to notice Alfric’s approach. Alfric’s hands gripped his arms, then worked their way down to the harp.
Sigurd’s fingers froze over the shivering strings. Alfric took another step forward, closing the distance between them, his chest pressing against Sigurd’s back. Then he pried the harp from Sigurd’s hands and set it down on the table.
“You play very well.” Alfric’s whisper tickled the skin of Sigurd’s neck. “But you know that’s not the only reason I asked you here.”
Alfric’s arms closed around him. His lips brushed the side of Sigurd’s chin. Sigurd did not know how to react, at first. It had been such a long time since anyone showed him such affection. The truth was that he hungered for it more than he cared to admit. He wanted to melt into Alfric’s arms then and there. He practically did. But he found the strength to turn around and meet the lord’s gaze, all while tasting his tantalizing breath against his lips.
Had he intended to say something? He could no longer remember. In any case, Alfric did not give him a chance to speak. Alfric leaned forward and kissed him, his strong hands wrapping round Sigurd’s back, his thigh pressing between Sigurd’s legs. Sigurd’s head spun. He felt incredible. He felt as if he could float up from the earth and into the sky. And yet …
“Is something wrong?” Alfric pulled back, leaving Sigurd wanting more. But while the rich lord embraced him, Sigurd had remained very still, offering little response. His eyes lowered with shame. “Is there someone else?” Alfric pressed.
“No. Well ...” Sigurd shook his head with frustration. “This is just happening a bit fast.”
“Forgive me.” To Sigurd’s surprise and regret, Alfric withdrew and turned away. “I must seem rather forward. But I have been … alone, for quite awhile.”
“I understand.” Sigurd blushed again, his cheeks practically stinging with heat. “All the more reason to take this slowly.” His fingers played with the edge of Alfric’s tunic. “Though I admit I’m tempted not to.”
Alfric smiled and pressed forward again. “You have nothing to fear.”
“Please.” With great reluctance, Sigurd pushed him back. “Not yet.”
Alfric sighed and pulled away from him completely. He took a moment to straighten his tunic and brush back his hair. “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed.” Then he handed over a small pouch of coins. As Sigurd took them, Alfric winked. “But I am intrigued by your performance. Until next time, minstrel.”
“Yes,” said Sigurd. “Indeed.”