The Lost Tales of Mercia (8 page)

Her eyes peered heavenward, glittering as if
with holy light, even as her eyelids drifted shut once more. “Yes,
Lord,” she whispered. “I understand. It is Aethelstan who must
gather the armies, and I must help him. I must ...”

Her body slipped from her consciousness, and
her mind returned happily to her dreams, which were much more
pleasant now than before.

**

4

The
Fourth Lost Tale of Mercia:

ATHELWARD THE HISTORIAN

(Or go back to
TABLE OF
CONTENTS
)

“
There, are, indeed, some notices of antiquity,
written in the vernacular tongue after the manner of a chronicle,
and arranged according to the years of our Lord. By means of these
alone, the times succeeding [Bede] have been rescued from oblivion:
for of [Athelward], a noble and illustrious man, who attempted to
arrange these chronicles in Latin, and whose intention I could
applaud if his language did not disgust me, it is better to be
silent.”

—William of Malmesbury, Chronicle of the Kings of
England, Preface

*

HAMPSHIRE, WESSEX

993 A.D.

The intruder entered quietly, but Athelward
recognized the footsteps of his dearest servant right away. The
servant knew better than to interrupt the ealdorman in the middle
of his work, so this must be an emergency. But if this was an
emergency, why didn’t the servant say something? Silent or not, his
presence wreaked irreparable damage. Athelward could not focus on
his writing when someone loomed close enough to see over his
shoulder, nor when such trivial questions plagued his mind as why
the servant entered in the first place. Already, he felt himself
slipping from his own stream of thought: a stream consisting of the
dazzling rapids of history swirling in harmony with the
sophisticated currents of the Latin language.

Athelward’s quill quivered with his growing
frustration, then at last fell aside. It was too late now; his
focus had been dashed upon the rocks and left to dry. Through
gritted teeth, he said, “What is it?”

“There is a woman here to see you, my lord.
She seeks your aid.” The Celtic servant, Drustan, seemed entirely
undaunted by his master’s mood. Very little phased Drustan, who had
a smug and rather reckless demeanor for a servant. Despite this, he
almost always seemed to know Athelward’s mind, even without being
told what to do, so Athelward kept him.

This, however, was not such a fitting
example. Athelward could not believe he had been interrupted for
something so trivial, and without more of an explanation. Because
he was ealdorman of Wessex, thousands of people desired his aid
every day. The fortune of a single woman, when compared to the
importance of completing the great literary work Athelward now
devoted himself to, was so trivial as to be completely
insignificant.

Athelward closed his eyes and took a deep
breath. The candles around him fluttered as he exhaled, casting
undulating waves of warmth on his face. He did not want to waste
his time with a useless conversation right now, especially with a
servant he would probably expel from his service on the morrow.
Better to simply ignore Drustan’s presence and get back to work.
After a few moments, he felt as if he succeeded. He felt the stream
of Latin words flowing back into his mind, the stream which flowed
to his heart, then through his blood to his fingertips. He brought
his quill back to the parchment.

“My lord? Her name is Golde. She says she
knows you. She has a child with her, a little boy, and they look
very traumatized.”

Athelward put down his quill with an angry
smack. He turned slowly around, the wooden chair creaking beneath
him, the bones of his back popping and groaning in harmony with the
furniture. Usually, tearing himself away from his writing was a
smoother and more gradual transition, aided by a long prayer and a
little bit of stretching. This interruption was simply
inexcusable.

Now that he looked upon Drustan directly,
though through a haze of anger, he thought the servant seemed even
smugger than usual. His eyes were twinkling, and his gaunt cheeks
glowed bright pink. His short straw-like hair, meanwhile, was a
total mess upon his head, like a roll of hay that had been rummaged
by a bear. Athelward’s eyes squinted even further, for he now felt
suspicious. “Golde? I don’t recall her. Is she of noble blood?
Married to a thegn? Is she a landowner? A churl?”

Drustan shook his head at the first two
questions, then nodded at the last.

Athelward guffawed. How much more ridiculous
could this get? “What sort of churl? A geneat? A kotsletla? A
gebur?” Drustan stared back at him with a dumb expression.
Athelward waved his hands frantically in the air. “Saints above,
who is she?”

“She said she was a friend of the
ealdorman—er, now exiled, I think—who ruled Mercia. Alfric, my
lord.”

Athelward sat up, attentive at last. Now, he
remembered. She was a woman with long blond hair, a beautiful round
face, and even less manners than the fool standing before him.
Worse, she had been a whore, or something similar enough to be
considered equivalent. But worst of all, she was associated with
Alfric, and to be associated with Alfric—whose son had recently
gotten his eyes removed by King Ethelred’s soldiers—was probably
one of the most dangerous traits in Engla-lond at this given
time.

Athelward bowed his head and crossed
himself. When he was done, he looked back up at Drustan, eyes
blazing. “What on earth possessed you to think I would want to
speak with her, Drustan? Oh, I have a theory—you were not thinking
at all!”

At last, with a heave of effort, Athelward
pulled himself from his chair. He did not like to think of himself
as old yet—though some might call him such—but he was certainly not
heavy or unfit. In fact he was quite skinny, and any extra girth or
awkwardness came from his somewhat excessive height. Moving from
the realm of literary knowledge to the physical world of sensation
and sin was simply a difficult maneuver. Once at last he stood and
reclaimed his body, pushing back his shoulders and lifting his
noble beard, he loomed over his servant and cut a respectable
figure.

For a moment, Drustan looked encouraged. He
must have thought Athelward was getting up to see the woman. But
his smirk turned into a frown when Athelward took a loping step
forward, craning his head low to look the servant up and down. He
observed the ruffled state of Drustan’s tunic, then the loosened
nature of his trousers. “You know better than to interrupt me. How
did she persuade you?” asked the ealdorman.

“She, uh ...” Drustan laughed nervously.

Athelward crossed his arms over his chest
and stared at the servant in silence.

“Well, she … um ...” Drustan moved his arms
about, then dropped them again, helpless.

Athelward sighed heavily, his suspicions
confirmed. “I will see her at church on Sunday and give her some
alms, like so many others in need. It sounds as if she needs God as
greatly as she needs money, after all. That is all I can do for
her, Drustan.” He turned to go back to his table, feeling strangely
victorious.

“She … she doesn’t want money, my lord. In
fact, she says she wants to give you some.”

“What?” Athelward turned back around,
intrigued despite himself. A wandering churl wanted to give
him
money? “Whatever for?”

“I don’t know, my lord. She just told me she
walked all the way from Worcestershire—”

The ealdorman saw that it was useless to
keep talking, and he had already wasted a great deal of time
arguing with his servant, when it would have been faster to see the
woman herself and send her away. Without another word, he strode
past Drustan and out the door.

The sensations of the world beyond the
sanctuary of his scriptorium struck him like a whip as he moved
through his manor. At first he simply smelled people: that
combination of musky, tart scents emitted by every slave, maid,
churl, or thegn who passed through his lodge. As he neared the
outdoors, he began to smell wool, its bitter fibres coated with
lard and butter to form air that stuffed his nose as he inhaled.
This time of year, with the coming warmth of summer, lucky sheep
got sheared all across Engla-lond, and anyone with good sense
purchased some of the wool for himself. But at last he stepped
outside, where the breeze was not cool enough to balance the warmth
of the searing sunshine, but at least it eased the olfactory
senses—except, of course, for the occasional wafting odors of hot
manure and freshly reaped grass.

Through the glare of bright white sunshine,
glowing green fields, and a piercing blue sky, Athelward soon
spotted his strange visitor. She had the same long yellow hair he
remembered, and lashes so pale they were almost white, which made
her blue gaze especially fierce as she turned it on him. He stopped
a good distance from the woman, all too aware of her persuasive
powers, though he did not consider himself to be easily moved by
matters of the flesh. Even so he could not help but admire her: the
sturdiness of her small frame as she stood in the wind, the lack of
weariness on her face despite the tattered state of her dress and
shoes.

Then Athelward noticed the little boy
standing next to her, head bowed and downcast, small hands curled
into fists at his sides. He seemed as if he did not want to be
seen, but Athelward could not suppress a gasp of surprise, for he
saw the curliness of the boy’s hair lashing in the wind, and it
occurred to him that this might be Alfric’s son. But no, it
couldn’t be Algar, whose eyes had been seared out with hot
pokers.

Athelward forced his gaze back to the woman,
Golde, trying to fill his stare with as much stubbornness as he
detected in hers. “State your business quickly or go. If your
business involves Alfric I’ll not touch it. He was my friend once
but his actions have necessitated my opposition to—”

She pulled a pouch from her dress and gave
it a quick shake, so that he could hear the jangle of coins within.
“This is as close to Alfric as my business will ever come. I took
this from his manor when I went there to rescue my own son.”

“Are you a thief, then?” The historian felt
uncomfortable, for the way she held out the money made her dress
poof out and display more of her well-rounded breasts than he cared
to see.

“Of course not. Alfric was long gone by the
time I found this, his household and all of his belongings were up
for grabs to anyone who could snatch them up. Including his poor
blinded son, who he left to die.”

The little boy made a small whimper, and she
pulled him tighter against her skirts.

“Anyway, it’s money, and I have traveled
over a hundred miles without using it, all so that I could give it
to you.”

“Why would you do that?” he cried.

She stepped closer, her soft lips curling
into a smile. “Because I know you respect money, and you will take
it in exchange for a service of equal value, even if that service
is unconventional.”

He was impressed by the woman’s awareness of
his feelings towards money, not to mention her obvious ambition.
Some years ago, Athelward—alongside Ealdorman Alfric, in fact—had
advised King Ethelred to pay off the Vikings with money rather than
to engage in another bloody and meaningless battle. Many
Anglo-Saxons had been embittered by this decision; even though it
bought them some peace, they suffered the more immediate effect of
losing their money, food, and hard-earned wares. No doubt some of
the gossip surrounding the Danegald payment, and Athelward’s
involvement in it, had been blown out of proportion. “I respect
money’s ability to save human lives,” he said. “Nothing more.”

Her eyes seemed to twinkle a little as her
smile broadened. “And what if it could save the human spirit?”

Athelward shook his head in puzzlement. “You
speak nonsense. I told you, Golde: state your business quickly, or
leave!”

“All right, I will state my business. I want
you to give my son an education.”

“What!” He felt his own blood drain from his
face. “I am an ealdorman. I don’t have time to—”

“You are an ealdorman also known as the
‘historian.’ Unlike any other layman before you, you spend more
time reading books and scribbling histories than gathering soldiers
and sharpening spears.”

“I … I ...” Instinctively, he felt the need
to argue. She was a churl, and shamelessly sinful. But in truth,
her statement made him proud. She recognized his accomplishment as
being one of the first dedicated scribes who was not also a
clergyman, while most people—finding it strange, and thus
incomprehensible—simply ignored this feat. Perhaps she even had a
vague understanding, if skewed, of what he valued. He hesitated too
long to form his response, and she found the breath for more
words.

“I want to use this money for something even
more valuable than a human body,” she went on relentlessly. “I want
you to give my boy knowledge, and understanding. I want him to be
able to make his life into whatever he wants it to be, despite what
other people expect of him.”

Athelward continued to shake his head,
harder and harder. “That is not how God made the world! Men must
make the best of the blood God gave them.”

“Blood?” She looked puzzled. “If by blood
you mean we are not in the family of some great king like you, then
that’s all the more reason for you to help him ‘make the best of
it.’”

Athelward wanted to keep shaking his head,
but a small crowd had gathered, and he found himself in an unusual
situation. Her proposal was absurd, but indeed, she offered him a
pouch of money, and it would look wrong for him to turn it down. He
glanced angrily at the people around him: soldiers, servants,
visiting thegns, and a few begging churls. He had made a speech to
every single one of them, years ago, that their money could serve a
greater purpose than buying mere food and clothing: it could buy
them peace from the Danes. Now, a woman stood before him, asking to
use her money for something greater than a physical comfort. How
could he deny her that, in front of so many witnesses?