by Jayden Woods
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He didn’t know what he would say. God forbid he do anything more stupid than he already had. But Sigurd needed to find some manner of closure for his feelings, however he might obtain it.
So here he stood on Godric’s doorstep, delaying the moment he must knock on the door.
“Uncle Sig!”
Sigurd gave a start of surprise, then turned with a gladdened heart to see Edric coming towards him. Godric’s son was growing faster than Sigurd could believe. At fifteen years of age, the boy had developed a slender but wiry figure and a head of thick, cherry-red hair. Even as a teenager, the boy had not lost his brazen cheerfulness. Sigurd was also glad Edric had not dropped his childhood habit of calling Sigurd ‘Uncle’ even though they weren’t related. Without any hesitation, he fell upon Sigurd with a breath-wrenching hug.
“Oh!” Sigurd marveled at the boy’s strength as he struggled to hug him back. “Hello, Edric.”
Edric pulled back, his face beaming with delight. “You’ve come at a good time, Uncle Sig. I went hunting yesterday and killed two fat pheasants—while they were flying! We’re having some for the night meal, and we have plenty to spare.”
“Thank you, Edric. You must be very good with a bow. But actually, I came to see Godric. I need to give him my rent.”
Edric frowned. “Rent was due last week.”
“Yes, well—funny thing—your father never came by to collect it.”
“Oh.” Edric scratched at his red curls, then shifted anxiously on his feet. “Listen, Sig, maybe you should just leave it here with me. Father’s been in … one of his moods. For quite a few days now.”
“I see.” Sigurd’s stomach churned nervously. He mustn’t back down now. “I can handle him, Edric. I’ve seen him at his worst, I assure you.”
“Very well.” Edric motioned to the other side of the dining hall. “He’s out back. Chopping wood.”
Sigurd nodded and reluctantly made his way onward.
He found Godric swinging his axe into a very large log, next to a pile that already looked large enough to get several families through the winter. Sigurd approached slowly, hoping that Godric still had extra-sharp hearing, for he did not particularly feel like announcing himself. He stood and waited for a long while, wresting his pouch of coins between his hands, hoping to make some extra noise in any way possible.
Godric finally stopped, breathing heavily and refusing to turn around. “What do you want, Edric?”
“Godric, it’s me.”
Godric stiffened but remained facing away, his grip tightening on his axe.
“I’ve, er, brought the rent. I also brought you some celery from my garden. It’s still in poor shape, but I managed to rummage a few—”
Godric threw down his axe and turned around. He advanced on Sigurd so hastily that the minstrel nearly fled in terror. Even if he had chosen to, he would not have had the chance, for Godric took hold of his tunic with an iron grip and wrenched him closer.
The Kingslayer was not wearing his eyepatch. Sigurd tried not to blanch at the sight of the right socket of Godric’s face, a gaping pit of scars and folded flesh. He knew Godric all too well. He knew that a reaction of disgust was exactly what Godric wanted. It would continue to feed Godric’s anger. And so long as he felt anger, he was protected from feeling anything else.
“You’ve got balls coming to me with rent,” snarled Godric, “when everyone knows you’ve gone to another lord with your loyalty.”
“Everyone knows?” Sigurd felt himself growing paler. “I suppose word gets around about a man like Alfric. It’s true that I have become his minstrel. But I have no plans yet of moving, or anything like—”
Godric shook him so hard his teeth rattled. “Don’t lie to me.”
“Get your hands off me!” With more strength than he knew he possessed, Sigurd wrenched free of Godric’s grip. Godric reached after him, but after a small struggle Sigurd broke free once more and staggered a few steps away. To his own surprise, he had drawn his dagger in the midst of the scuffle, and now held it out before him. His heart was pounding with unusual ferocity, his breath ragged. “You’ll not touch me like that again, Godric, or you’ll very well regret it.”
The anger on Godric’s face cracked, revealing the hurt and betrayal underneath. “Sigurd ...”
“What do you care who I am to Lord Alfric? I will keep paying you rent until I choose to do otherwise. I will take up whatever occupation I like in the meantime.”
“I thought you liked gardening.”
Sigurd almost wanted to laugh, but the desperation in Godric’s voice made him too sad. “I only chose gardening because I knew you could help me with it. But I’m not a gardener, Godric. And I’m not a simple churl who lives just to pay his rent. I need more than that in my life. Perhaps I thought that so long as I followed you ...” His voice cracked. “Perhaps I believed that wherever you might be, I would find enough excitement to keep me happy. But I was wrong about that. And I was wrong to expect … so much of you.”
Godric looked down, but he failed to hide the sorrow in his gaze. Sigurd lowered his dagger. The emotion wrenching Godric’s voice surprised him. “I’m sorry, Sigurd.”
Godric stepped forward, then hesitated, looking at Sigurd’s knife. Hands trembling, Sigurd sheathed it.
Slowly, Godric opened his arms and wrapped Sigurd inside them.
For awhile, Sigurd was afraid to move. He wanted to relish the feeling of Godric holding him—no violence in his arms, no spite in his grip—and he feared doing something to ruin it. He breathed deeply of Godric’s scent, then leaned further against him, tentatively embracing him back.
“I’m sorry,” Godric repeated.
“Oh ...” Sigurd to blink back the prick of tears against his eyes. He didn’t know if they were tears of joy or regret. “I forgive you, Kingslayer.”
Godric released him and withdrew, still unable to look at him.
Sigurd laughed sadly, glad Godric could not see the state of his own expression. “I hope this means you’ll still surprise me with a visit every once in awhile.”
Godric shifted uncertainly, then dared look back up. The slightest smirk lifted his lips. “If you have bugs—or anything else—in need of killing, you just let me know.”
“Oh, I hope not.” Sigurd handed over his pouch of rent, and as Godric reached for it, Sigurd clasped his hand firmly. “I hope not.”
Then the both of them laughed, and Sigurd decided that all the disappointment of the last few years had been worth it, after all.
**
10
Last Tales of Mercia 10:
OSBERN THE SON
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