by Jayden Woods
*
Aydith reached to him from the shadows.
“Oh, Hastings, you have fought so bravely.”
Now he only wore thin linens, and the sliding fabric sent ripples along his skin as she raked her nails along it. Her fingers trailed up his torso onto the bare skin of his chest. When she put her warm palm against the bruise, it ceased to ache.
He reached up and put his hand against hers.
“My lady … I am glad you are pleased.”
“Pleased?” She made a sad sound. She leaned closer to him, her dark hair falling over her shoulders and tickling his chest. Her fingers trailed up, scraping the grizzly hairs of his neck, then cradling his face along her palm. “I would, but I hate to see you in so much pain. You should be rewarded for what you’ve done.”
“My reward is to see you happy, my lady.” He slid his hand along her arm, then under the hem of her sleeve. “Although ...”
“Yes?”
His hand kneaded the soft flesh of her shoulder. “I would make you happy all my life if I could,” he said. “We could reward each other all our lives, you and I, if ...” He grew still.
“If what?”
“If I was your husband.” His hand slid further into her dress.
“Hastings,” she breathed, and fell against him with a thud.
“Hastings.”
Her hands shook him, then seemed to grow larger. The grip tightened and yanked him across the floor more violently. The pain returned to his chest.
“Hastings!”
The hearth companion groaned and opened his eyes. He looked through swollen, slanted lids at a face that was bound to disappoint him, for it was not Aydith’s. But it could have been worse. It could have been Ulfcytel’s.
“Lord Aethelstan!” he cried.
In his clearing vision the aetheling was a thing of beauty, freshly groomed and glistening with ornaments, his eyes soft and sincere as they searched Hastings’s body.
“Are you hurt?” asked the prince.
“No, ah—” A hoarse, guttural sound poured out of his throat as Aethelstan started to lift him off the floor. “A little.”
A shadow fell over Aethelstan’s golden hair, and both the men tensed. “Who’s there?” snapped the aetheling.
“It is I, Ulfcytel!”
Releasing Hastings, Aethelstan turned on the high reeve with fists clenched. “I should have you thrashed for treating a royal retainer with such cruelty! What did he do to deserve it?”
“I … I … I was confused, my lord. I thought he had tricked me. I thought he had taken something from me. I thought—”
“But now you see that you were mistaken?” Aethelstan hurried on.
“Y-yes, my lord. I see that now.”
Hastings searched his cloudy memories of the last few days. How long had he been trapped in this hot, dusty room? Days? Weeks? People had brought him bread and water. Sometimes he had crawled to the latrine. He had slept a great deal, and had a fever. But he had blocked most sensations and events from his consciousness so that he did not have to think about the pain in his chest. If he searched his memory deeply enough, he did remember hearing things, sometimes. He had heard more celebrating, more good cheer, and at one point he thought he had heard someone announce that Ulfcytel’s cousin escaped and returned home. Later he had dismissed it as a dream, for no one came to release him as he hoped. But after that Ulfcytel had never returned to beat him.
“I’m glad you recognize your mistake.” Ulfyctel flinched as Aethelstan lifted his arm, but it was only to clap the high reeve on the shoulder. “Because altogether, you have done very well, Ulfcytel. I’m sure it would not always be wise, but the decision to put your best men in front in your situation was ingenious! The Danes themselves say they have never faced such masterful hand-play as you gave them. My father is pleased.”
“I—” Ulfcytel looked uncertainly at Hastings, then away again. Hastings just glared at him. “I thank you, my lord.”
“It is King Ethelred who wishes to thank you, Ulfcytel,” said Aethelstan. He pulled a scroll from his tunic and offered it up. “He brings you this message.”
Ulfcytel took the scroll, then his eyes doubled in size. He was staring at the seal. “This is your insignia, my lord?”
“Why, yes.”
Gulping, Ulfcytel looked at Hastings. Hastings smirked. Understanding passed between them. The seal on this scroll was the same that had been on the one from the Golden Cross. The high reeve was not very smart, but he seemed to be piecing some things together, nonetheless.
Ulfcytel bowed low. “It was my greatest pleasure to serve your wishes, my lord.”
“Ah … thank you. And I hope that you will continue to … serve my wishes, Ulfcytel. For you are to become Ealdorman of East Anglia.”
“My lord!” Words failed the warrior, who planted his fist against his chest and bowed low. “My lord, I am so honored.”
“Good. But we have a great deal to discuss, you understand. The first matter being your marriage to my sister.”
Hastings’s mouth fell open. Surely he heard wrong? He tried to say something, but his words became mangled by the pain in his chest, and all that he said was a painful grunt.
Aethelstan looked over at the hearth companion, concerned. “Before we discuss anything, you should send someone to tend this man’s wounds and provide him refreshment. Go on!”
Ulfcytel bowed his head with a curt motion, then stomped away.
Despite his aching torso, Hastings rose up to his knees and shuffled closer to the aetheling. “Tell me, my lord—tell me I heard wrong!”
Aethelstan’s pale brows furrowed together. “What’s that?”
It was all happening too fast. He felt dizzy. He reached out and gripped the prince’s tunic so he could steady himself. He tried to look the aetheling in the eye. “I don’t … understand. Marriage, already?”
“Of course.” Aethelstan looked confused. “Doesn’t it please you to see Ulfcytel rewarded?”
“But—Aydith!” Her name came from his lips more desperately than he would have wished, but he could not help himself, so great was his inner torment.
“Oh, not Aydith. Hah!” Aethelstan reached down and gripped Hastings’s hands, which were starting to slip. “No wonder you were so confused, Hastings. Ulfcytel will marry Aetheling Wulfhild.”
“Ah.” Relief wrapped around Hastings like a cooling salve, but left his mind roiling in confusion. “But why not Aydith?”
“Aydith wouldn’t have it,” said Aethelstan. “As soon as she caught wind of Father’s notions to reward Ulfcytel, she made her position painfully clear. If she were married to Ulfcytel, she would make the new ealdorman miserable for the rest of his life.”
Hastings smiled despite himself. “And why do you think she would do that?”
“Because she is a foolish girl, and infatuated with someone else. Apparently enough so to make my father pay attention.”
A tremble wracked the hearth companion. “Did she … did she say with whom?”
Aethelstan brushed at Hastings’s fingers, clearly tiring of their grip. “I don’t recall if she said it aloud. She didn’t need to. Everyone knows. It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
Hastings felt as if he might faint.
“It was many seasons ago when that strange churl, Eadric of Mercia, visited the palace, and yet she speaks as if it happened yesterday. You remember when he visited Father two years ago? Well, of course you do. It was a horrible day.” Aethelstan grew silent in respect for the gruesome memories of that Saint Brice’s day two years ago.
But instead of feeling reverent, Hastings found himself seething. Eadric of Mercia? What did he have to do with anything?
“For whatever reason,” Aethelstan went on at last, “Aydith goes on and on about that conceited young swineherd. Although I suppose he’s not a swineherd anymore. What does it matter? She keeps saying she’ll marry a man of Mercia one day—as if it would be him! By the cross,
I am starting to believe that the nobility of her husband would hardly matter, so long as she gets married, am I right?”
Aethelstan laughed, but Hastings only glowered at the floor. He felt as if someone had reached out and punched him in the ribs again. So, Aydith went on and on about Eadric of Mercia? Or at least Aethelstan thought so? Could the prince be wrong? After all, Hastings spent more time with Aydith than her brother did, and he had never heard her say things like that. Or had he? So many of his own thoughts were muddling together in his head that he quickly grew confused.
His breath grew faster and heavier, making him grind his teeth in pain. “Do you mean that?” he growled. Aethelstan stopped chuckling and looked at him curiously. “Would the nobility of her husband not matter to you?”
Aethelstan frowned. “Hastings, you don’t look well. You should probably get some rest.”
“I’VE RESTED PLENTY!”
He exerted so much breath that his ribs felt as if they were lit on fire, and the aetheling took a step backwards. A long, terrible silence filled the emptiness his shout left behind.
Aethelstan spoke through clenched teeth. “Then perhaps you should eat, and return to Lundenburg. And … while you’re at it ...” He forced his chin up indignantly. “You should remember your place!”
With a turn of his heel, Aetheling Aethelstan strode away.
Hastings groaned and rolled down onto his back. The floorboards were hot and searing against him, yet he felt as if he might never get up again.
Perhaps Aethelstan was wrong. Perhaps he misread Aydith entirely.
His fists clenched at his sides. His muscles constricted along his chest and made the pain all the sharper. For he knew that it did not matter what—or who—Aydith wanted.
Whatever it was, whomever it was, Hastings would help her attain it.
**
READ MORE
Read the Lost Tales in any order you’d like, before or after reading the novel Eadric the Grasper, or completely alone as quick glimpses into an ancient world. For more news and updates on the Sons of Mercia series, visit www.jaydenwoods.com.
The First Lost Tale: Golde the Mother
The Second Lost Tale: Ethelred the King
The Third Lost Tale: Aydith the Aetheling
The Fourth Lost Tale: Athelward the Historian
The Fifth Lost Tale: Alfgifu the Orphan
The Sixth Lost Tale: Hastings the Hearth Companion
The Seventh Lost Tale: Hildred the Maid
The Eighth Lost Tale: Canute the Viking
The Ninth Lost Tale: Runa the Wife
The Tenth Lost Tale: Edmund the Aetheling
(The Lost Tales are available in print at many online retailers)
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, as compiled by various monks until the year 1140, were my primary sources of information. So, too, were the Chronicles of Florence of Worcester and the Chronicles of the Kings of England as written by William of Malmesbury. Without the devotion of these men to chronicle the chaotic events of their time, so little of the Dark Ages would be known. For a full list of sources, or to tell me what you think of my work, visit my blog at https://talesofmercia.wordpress.com.