The Sixth Lost Tale of Mercia: Hastings the Hearth Companion Read online



  The Sixth Lost Tale of Mercia:

  Hastings the Hearth Companion

  Jayden Woods

  Copyright 2010 Jayden Woods

  Edited by Malcolm Pierce

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  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.

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  “A.D. 1004. This year came Sweyne with his fleet to Norwich, plundering and burning the whole town.”

  —Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, Entry for Year 1004

  NORWICH

  1004 A.D.

  Hastings and his horse raced through a hundred miles of wetlands and heath to find their destination obscured in a haze of smoke.

  Overnight, the Vikings had reduced Norwich—the seat of the East Anglian government and one of Engla-lond’s greatest cities—to ash and rubble. Families stood next to the remainders of their homes, watching as the unquenchable flames consumed the last beams. People burned their fingers digging through embers for scraps and precious belongings. The injured sat in the ash-ridden streets, moaning helplessly as their wounds festered. Hastings was not sure whether the water gathering in his eyes was a result of his own sympathy or the burning smoke that the breeze threw against him.

  Even the high reeve’s hall, on a small hill in the middle of the city, had not escaped the Viking attack. The east wall had been severely damaged, so that the whole building seemed to be leaning, ready to collapse. Hastings wondered if he had arrived too late. Perhaps the witan had already met, or it would never meet, for the wise men would not even have a safe place in which to gather and discuss their future. It was difficult to imagine a future at all when faced with such immediate devastation.

  But then a breeze blew, as if from the ocean, fresh, salty, and clarifying. Clouds of smoke rolled away, and rays of sunshine illuminated a small gathering of men near the high reeve’s hall, meeting and conversing despite their miserable circumstances: the wise men. Hastings heaved a deep breath, dragging himself and his horse towards them.

  The men took little notice of him at first; no doubt they had to ignore almost everything around them in order to concentrate at all. In addition, Hastings looked more like a worthless beggar than the royal retainer that he was. He had ridden through fens and marshes and mud and filth until he felt sodden by the wet earth from his tunic to his loincloth. But even this did not weigh him down so much as his own exhaustion. His knees trembled underneath him and he could hardly keep his head up. His horse was the only obvious indication of any worthwhile status. A small crowd had already gathered around the important meeting, so Hastings seemed like yet another audience member, straining to get a closer position. Thanks to the horse plodding next to him, people threw him angry looks, but moved out of his way.

  By the time Hastings was close enough to eavesdrop, no words were actually being spoken. In a circle stood the East Anglian wise men—thegns, reeves, and members of the clergy—while in the middle a large man paced back and forth, back and forth, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Hastings had probably glimpsed him before in Lundenburg, but even if he had not, he could have easily guessed that this was the high reeve, Ulfcytel. He was a large man, sporting short blond hair and a grizzly beard. The vibrations of his pounding feet seemed to carry all the way to where Hastings stood. His name and fair features were a strong indication of his Scandinavian origin, but despite all that, his lordship over the Anglo-Saxons was apparent by the way he held their rapt attention. When he spoke, his hoarse, booming voice rattled Hastings to his core.

  “I am Ulfcytel,” he yelled, “and I say there is nothing else we can do. Gather the Danegald.”

  A soft moan of dismay carried over the crowd, adding to the chorus of groans already echoing through the ruins.

  Sighing, Hastings leaned against the ribs of his horse, breathing nearly as heavily as the great beast, and felt a moment of guilty relief. Perhaps, indeed, he had come too late. Perhaps he had no choice but to find shelter, get a full night’s rest, and return home to Lundenburg.

  But in doing so, he would fail the Golden Cross; and even worse, he would fail Aydith.

  He looked up and saw that the wise men were already turning around, ready to walk away, ready to give up.

  “Wait,” he rasped. He coughed, trying to clear phlegm from his throat. He needed water. “Wait!” Still no one listened to him, so he grabbed his horse’s saddle and pulled himself up. The stallion neighed with dismay, and Hastings increased her agitation by kicking her flank, so the steed reared up and bolted forward, knocking people over and bursting into what remained of the wise men’s circle.

  Hastings did not think he could have planned his entry much better than that, for now he had everyone’s attention. It was not good, however, that Ulfcytel had drawn his sword, and looked ready to chop off his horse’s legs.

  “Wait!” he cried again. He slid back down to earth, half-stumbling as he righted himself, reaching deep into his tunic for the one spot against his heart that he had kept clean and secure. When he pulled out the scroll, its whiteness seemed to glow through the ashy air, making Ulfcytel’s eyes pop open with surprise. “I bring …” Hastings gasped, feeling dizzy. He had come this far. He had to deliver the message properly. “I bring battle plans from the Golden Cross.”

  “The who?”

  Hastings righted himself at last, pushing his matted hair from his face, brushing off what mud he could from his tunic. He fiddled with his sword belt for a moment, not because he needed to, but because he wanted to draw attention to its intricacy and ornateness. He was not sure if he wanted Ulfcytel to recognize him completely, for they had briefly encountered each other in the past, but he at least needed to be taken seriously as a member of the noble retainers. “I am one of the royal gesithas,” he said. “I serve his lordship and his aethelings as needed. On their behalf I bring you this military advice, provided by one of King—er, Engla-lond’s most loyal battle tacticians, the Golden Cross.”

  He had crafted his words carefully, as instructed, misleading the high reeve without lying. He wanted to be taken seriously as a representative of the royal family without ever stating that he was acting on their orders. He also took care not to say King Ethelred’s name, despite all of this. Two years ago, Ethelred had ordered that all of the Danes in Engla-lond be killed. Naturally, he had not succeeded, for there were far too many of them, including several in positions of great power, like Ulfcytel himself and other thegns of the Danelaw. Afterwards, many blamed the massacre on a young man named Eadric, said to have advised Ethelred in secret the day before. Hastings knew this meeting had taken place, but he thought it silly to put all of the blame on this otherwise unknown Mercian. No doubt Ulfcytel, determined to keep his lands and power, preferred to blame some poor teen named Eadric rather than the king to whom he remained loyal.

  Hastings’s carefully planned speech must have worked, for Ulfcytel cocked his yellow eyebrows and unrolled the scroll. He snapped his fingers. A clergyman rushed quickly to his aid. Their eyes perused the scroll together, but Ulfcytel seemed to have difficulty. Meanwhile all the other wise men were straining closer out of curiosity, annoyed that they could not see for themselves.

  Hastings filled in the silence. “The Golden Cross urges all of you not to give up hope, even though you have not had time to gather the fyrd against Sweyn Forkbeard. The Golden Cross suggests a new tactic, one that would be available to you without gathering your entire arm
y.”

  All this while, the bishop was whispering in Ulfcytel’s ear, reading the scroll for him. Ulfcytel looked up with a scowl. “He says to put our best men in front? That’s ridiculous.”

  “It would be faster to gather the best of your thegns and warriors, rather than all of the fyrd,” Hastings went on. “And even if time was not a factor, think of it: a shield wall with the best men in front would be practically impenetrable.”

  The clergyman at Ulfcytel’s side glared at Hastings. He was thin and gaunt, with beady eyes that were entirely unpleasant. “And once penetrated, the entire army would crumple.”

  “Bishop Elfgar is right!” roared Ulfcytel.

  “But it would also be easy to penetrate the enemy,” Hastings went on. He had rehearsed the speech so many times in his head that the words came out effortlessly. “The front lines could open up and let men out at will, magnificent fighters who could wreak severe damage on the Vikings all on their own.”

  Ulfcytel hesitated, considering this. When at a loss, he turned once more to the bishop.

  Bishop Elfgar shook his head sadly. “It is too risky. Besides, who is this Golden Cross, and why have I not heard of him before? Does he not have a name?”

  “Yeah, and what are these two golden lines at the bottom of the page?” Ulfcytel added indignantly. No doubt he meant the “x” signed with golden ink.

  “The Golden Cross’s signature,” said Hastings. “And as I said, the Golden Cross is a brilliant military tactician who serves King Ethelred, and all of Engla-lond. You may have noticed that the scroll was approved with a royal seal.”

  Ulfcytel just blinked in puzzlement.

  Bishop Elfgar rolled up the scroll with a decisive motion. “Battle tactics are beside the point. The East Anglian witan has made its decision. We will pay Sweyn to leave our shores, and in that way spare the lives of all our best men, God willing.”

  Hastings could see that he had lost. Indeed, he had come too late, though he had tried his best, and he wanted his efforts to enable him to face Aydith without shame.

  He only hoped that she would forgive him, and not see this failure as his own.