The Tenth Lost Tale of Mercia: Edmund the Aetheling Page 3

  *

  Aydith found him dragging his feet through the courtyard, kicking occasionally at the frosty mud. A group of chickens squawked and scattered away from him. A few royal retainers loitered nearby, watching him reluctantly.

  When he saw her approaching, he sighed with dismay, then steeled himself.

  Unexpectedly, she did not release a torrent of anger upon him. She looked just as sad and miserable as he did. And for awhile, she simply stood there next to him, not saying a word.

  “What do we do?” Edmund surprised himself by being the first to speak, and asking such an important question while doing so.

  Aydith’s lips twisted from side to side as she considered this. It amazed Edmund whenever he saw his sister do child-like things, for she was so mature that she often seemed like a grown woman. “First, we need to figure out exactly what Egil is up to.”

  “Oh, forget about Egil! Father likes him,” he sneered, “and I was probably just being paranoid!” He picked up a stick and threw it at an unsuspecting hen, who attempted to escape by flapping her flimsy wings.

  Aydith fixed him with a level stare. “I don’t think you’re paranoid,” she said. “I believe you completely. Even if he’s not out to poison the entire witenagemot, I think Egil would do something against Father if he had the chance.”

  “You think,” said Edmund. “But do you know?”

  “Yes!”

  “How?”

  Her little nose pinched as she restrained her frustration. “I just … do.”

  “See? You’re as bad as the rest of us. Forget it. Forget everything.”

  “Edmund.” A tone of pleading entered her voice. “Maybe we could get Father to do something so we didn’t have to. It just needs to be something … definite. But also something non-confrontational.”

  “Oh enough!” It all sounded even more ridiculous coming from his sister’s childish mouth. He wanted to laugh about it but he couldn’t. All he could do was walk away.

  “Edmund!”

  He heard the chinks of shifting metal as his companions moved to follow him, but he whirled on them quickly. “Leave me alone. All of you!”

  He hurried away, and it came as both a relief and a disappointment that no one bothered to follow him, after all.

  He spent most of his morning hacking at a dummy with his sword, practicing his techniques and stances, but mostly just hacking. He pretended that it had a real face, and that face took the shape of various people he knew, like Egil, or Alfric, or even his father.

  Once he’d exhausted himself with the sword, his stomach growled desperately, so at last he went to the kitchens and ate. Then he paced about the palace for a long while, and even tried listening in on the witenagemot. He did not get far. The doors were shut tight, and the retainers around the area gave him warning glances. Edmund scowled back. He could have attended the witenagemot from the start if he really wanted to, but if so he would not have been allowed to leave, just as he could not now interrupt them. The thought of listening to the wise men’s useless quibbling all day made him sick to his stomach.

  He decided to walk to town again, even though it was a strange time to do so. He knew he would get strange looks from people who saw a young teen strolling the streets alone wearing fancy clothes, but today he did not even care. He yearned for a sense of normalcy beyond the stifling walls of the palace.

  He had not gone very far when he ran suddenly into Alfric.

  He didn’t recognize the man at first. Edmund had only seen him as a young boy, after all, and one of his most striking features—his hair—had been largely removed, chopped clean off his head. Edmund would have passed him by without a second thought, but Alfric was not about to let that happen.

  “Greetings, Aetheling.”

  Edmund squinted at the dark shape outlined by the sinking white sun. Then he blinked with surprise at the stubbed yellow curls remaining around the man’s forehead and the pinched, angled smile hovering above his chin. The prince froze, all but for his hand, which twitched involuntarily towards the hilt of his sword. Alfric’s eyes flicked to watch the movement. He took a step closer, his long red cloak spreading behind him. Edmund gulped.

  “I’m so glad I ran into you,” said Alfric. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Step back.” Edmund scrambled away, nearly embarrassing himself by tripping over a stone in the road.

  “Easy. I just don’t want anyone to hear us. Maybe we should talk over there?”

  He pointed to a dark alley between buildings, and Edmund’s heart jumped into his throat. How foolish would he be to follow Alfric to a place like that? “We can talk here,” he said, struggling to sound firm. “Or back in the palace.”

  “That would be even worse,” said Alfric. His expression twisted into one of impatience. “I’m not here to play games, boy. Will you hear me out or not?”

  Edmund hoped he did not look as terrified as he felt. He glimpsed the sword under Alfric’s cloak. It was smaller and simpler than his own, despite the sizes of their respective owners, but in that case it would be even easier to quietly unsheathe and use to slit someone’s throat. He wished desperately that he had brought along his companions, after all. But it was too late for that now. Either he toughened up and listened to what Alfric had to say, or he ran away and wondered for the rest of his life whether he could have uncovered an important secret.

  “Very well,” he breathed at last.

  Alfric bowed his head and swept his hand towards the alley. “After you, my lord.” How quickly his tone had changed!

  Edmund wanted to insist that Alfric go first, but he saw a gleam of amusement in Alfric’s eyes, as if that was exactly what he hoped for. He would not give him that satisfaction. Feeling miserable enough to die anyway, Edmund trudged ahead. Soon he stood in between two walls and a large stack of wood, so that there was only one way out, which quickly became closed by Alfric.

  Alfric filled the space happily, though he feigned a grave expression as he leaned against the wall. “Now Edmund,” he said. “I think you’ve met Lord Egil.”

  Edmund tried to swallow, but found his mouth too dry.

  Alfric leaned close, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. “He’s up to no good.”

  The aetheling resisted the urge to step back from Alfric’s piercing gaze. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “I spoke to him only yesterday. He’s going to do something to the food on Saint Brice’s Day.”

  Hope stirred in Edmund’s belly, but he doused it quickly. “Do what, damn it?”

  Alfric smirked. “Poison it, of course.”

  There. Someone had said it at last. The truth was revealed. And yet as he looked at the smile pulling one corner of Alfric’s lips, a shiver went through Edmund. He should not trust this man at all. This man had once taken his father’s battle plans directly to the Vikings. His son had paid the price for the crime. And now he was back ... for what? What if Aydith was right? What if he wanted revenge? Or what if he was truly so cowardly he didn’t even care for that; he simply wanted to gain Ethelred’s favor once more, whatever it took?

  If Aydith were here, Edmund thought, she would pester Lord Alfric with questions. It always annoyed Edmund when she asked lots of questions. But she also seemed to know about everything as a result. So perhaps he should ask some questions, himself. “Um ...” He shifted about on his feet, then crossed his arms over his chest. “How do you know?”

  “I heard him say it,” said Alfric. “Yesterday.” He cocked an eyebrow, as if he and Edmund shared a little secret. Edmund wondered whether the banished lord knew about his conversation with Ethelred that very morning. Edmund guessed that he did.

  “So why did you wait this long to tell someone?”

  “I wanted to find out more. So I did. Egil has a network of other Danes helping him; they will all work together to poison the soup. I don’t know who all of them are, however.”

  “Oh God,” said Edmund.
/>
  Alfric nodded gravely. “I can think of only one way to surely escape this. Ethelred, his family, and his most loyal men must go somewhere else to feast. It need not be suspicious, though you must of course keep it quiet. I know of a great manor down the river. It could be like a retreat, if you will.”

  The idea was simple enough. If a plot was afoot in Lundenburg, why not just leave for a little while? Then Edmund clenched his fists. It was a coward’s way out—just like Alfric to suggest. And in the end, it would not destroy the threat, only delay it.

  He felt he had heard enough of Alfric’s driveling. He needed to go somewhere else to think about it. He doubted Alfric would tell him anything else useful, and the dark confinement of the alley grew stifling. “I will think on this,” he said. He made to go, moving around Alfric to the best of his ability.

  He flinched with surprise as Alfric’s hand wrapped around his arm. “I haven’t finished speaking with you,” he snarled.

  “But I have finished with you,” said Edmund. He looked desperately about, but no one in the streets so much as glanced his direction. Did they not care what was going on here?

  Sensing the aetheling’s hopes, Alfric tightened his grip and swung Edmund back in front of him, so that no one from the street would see him at all. A white mist spread around Alfric’s face as the air froze his huffing breath. “Listen Edmund, I’m giving you a way to save your family! And you’re just going to walk away like you never even spoke to me?”

  He shook Edmund hard, and the aetheling flapped about like a rag-doll. Much to his own shame, he felt weak and helpless with fear. Why was Alfric doing this to him? Why was this happening to him at all? “What do you want?” he cried.

  Alfric stopped shaking him, his voice calming slightly. “I want you to do as you should. Save your family. Do what I’ve suggested. Let me help you. Be a hero, Edmund.”

  Edmund stared with terror into the splintered colors of Alfric’s irises. A horrible possibility entered his mind. What if this suggestion was a trap in itself?

  “Edmund?” His brow furrowed with concern. “Do you not trust me? Is that it? Well … consider this, aetheling.”

  Alfric pressed him to the wall with one forearm, while his other hand yanked his sword from its scabbard. A cry ripped from Edmund’s throat in harmony with the ringing steel. Alfric replaced the arm against Edmund’s throat with his blade.

  “What do you think of this?” Alfric leaned close to him. “I could kill you, Edmund, right here, right now. No one would know. I could strip you of your valuables so you looked like the corpse of a miserable peasant. I could even give myself a little nick on the arm and claim I tried to save you from the thief that did it. Perhaps your father would welcome me back with open arms for my bravery.” Edmund moaned with dismay. “But I won’t do any of that, of course.”

  Alfric stepped back and re-sheathed his sword with a quick and clumsy movement. Edmund realized the lord was shaking nearly as violently as himself. As relieved as he was to be released, spite filled his veins, for he knew the only reason Alfric did not do such a thing was because of his own cowardice.

  “You see, my lord?” The ealdorman’s voice cracked slightly. “I wish you no harm. All I ask is that you do not ignore my warning, and tell me what you want to do next, so I may plan accordingly.”

  “I … I ...” Edmund could hardly think straight. His fear blurred all of his thoughts like a thick, white veil.

  “Edmund, tell me what you’re going to do.”

  “GO TO HELL!”

  Edmund shoved blindly at Alfric, throwing himself forward with all of his might. He was not exactly sure how it happened, only that for a moment his limbs tangled with Alfric’s, and then suddenly he was free. Then he took off running.

  He did not care where he went, so far as it was far away from Alfric. He did not even care to run towards the palace, either. What would he do once he returned? Tell his family what Alfric had said? And what if Alfric was only leading his family into another trap?

  He listened to the wind gush past his ears as his thoughts roared within his head. The more he thought about it, the more perfect he realized such a plan would be. Alfric could lure out all of Ethelred’s “most loyal men” away from their their guards and retainers, who would be suspected of consorting with Lord Egil. All of them would go to an isolated spot, and there they could easily be slain. It seemed a bit far-fetched, even for Alfric. But Edmund would not put it past him. And even if the trap was not so cruel as that, what else bad might happen? No matter how politely Ethelred went about it, such a gesture would send a clear message to all of the men left behind—mostly Danish nobles of the north—that he did not trust them, nor care for their company in a feast.

  People gave Edmund strange looks and yelled at him, but he did not stop until exhaustion overcame him. In truth he was still not very far from the palace, but his fear and despair drained him more than any physical effort. He collapsed on a wooden step, crumpling under the weight of his responsibilities, and broke down in tears.

  He did not know for how long he cried. It felt incredibly good, somehow, and he did not know when he might have another chance to cry like this without his companions or someone else of importance watching. He felt sad for himself, and his entire family, and all they had to endure. How could they protect Engla-lond when it was so hard just to watch their own backs? He thought of all the horrible things people said about the king; he thought of how many times he had felt equally mad at his father. But how could one function when plagued with so much doubt and uncertainty? How could Ethelred act wisely from one day to the next when at any moment, his own friends could turn on him?

  “What’s this?” called a young man. “What ails you, my friend?”

  Edmund looked up, annoyed by the interruption. But the sight of the churl who addressed him gave him pause. The peasant, only a few years older than himself, stood and spoke like a nobleman. He had long curly hair that reminded him of Alfric’s, though he quickly forced this thought away, recognizing this as the paranoia his father had warned him about. The fellow seemed to be on hard times, whatever his station, for his clothes were ill-fitting and coming apart at the seams. The horse he held next to him carried a casket of wine, leaking a small red river down the its belly. But none of these misfortunes seemed to phase the young man, whose eyes twinkled with optimism.

  “Who are you?” Edmund grumbled at last.

  “Eadric of Staffordshire.”

  Edmund did not recognize the name. But if he was here from Staffordshire, might he be a thegn hoping to make a name for himself at the king’s witenagemot? Or even one of the lesser wise men?

  “Now tell me who has wronged you,” Eadric went on. “A lord? A churchman? Or perhaps a woman? I can help you with any of the above—especially the last.”

  “Can you help me with a father?”

  “I know little of fathers.” Eadric’s face pinched as if the word put a bad taste in his mouth. “But what has he done to you?”

  “He has done nothing to me, but everyone else complains of him. They call him foolish and incompetent.” He glared at Eadric. “I bet you don’t even know what that word means.”

  “It means he cannot do his job.”

  Edmund scowled. He hadn’t realized the word was so insulting.

  “If you ask me,” Eadric went on, “a job is a job. What matters is whether he can protect himself, and his family. A job is only a means to an end. Do you follow?”

  “I … think so.” He didn’t. But he wanted to.

  Eadric smiled. “Cheer up, my friend. The purpose of a job is to buy bread and live a comfortable life. Therefore its purpose is to be happy, and so it must be useless, if it makes no one happy. Consider the king. He is a king! And yet do you hear how people ridicule him?”

  Edmund blinked with surprise.

  “When the king asks people to pay money to the Vikings, and thus delay the next attack, everyone shouts and complains. But the king
is only doing what he must: protecting himself and his own. In any case, he wants his people to be happy, and if they stopped complaining, perhaps they would be.”

  Could it be? Someone who actually approved of his father’s actions? “They say he should fight more. But he won’t.”

  The young man shifted about uncertainly. “And do you blame him? Why, if I was the king, I wouldn’t fight much at all, I think.”

  “Then you’re a coward!”

  Eadric crossed his arms over his chest. “Am I? Think about it, friend. Our Saxon kings tried to fight the Vikings for over two hundred years, and it hasn’t accomplished a thing.”

  “Then what would you do?”

  Eadric’s grin stretched from ear to ear. “Whatever method was fastest and easiest, I suppose: a method that certainly would not be found on the battlefield.”

  Edmund thought of what Aydith had said. Ethelred needed to do something both definite and non-confrontational. Was that the sort of thing this poor noble had in mind?

  Eadric shook his head lackadaisically. “Don’t think on it so much. The king does what he must to protect and feed us; I am sure your father is the same. And if he isn’t … then to hell with him!”

  It was the last unexpected nugget thrown Edmund’s way: this fellow truly had no idea who he was talking to! Unable to endure any more surprises, Edmund got up and ran off again.

  This time he aimed his feet towards the palace. The strange teenager’s cheerful and cocky mood had gotten through to him somehow. If Eadric had not known who he was speaking to, then perhaps he actually meant what he said about Ethelred? Perhaps he could actually be trusted?

  And perhaps if this Eadric—who despised fighting and liked easy solutions—had an idea of any value at all, then might King Ethelred actually heed it?

  **

  READ MORE

  **The full novel, Eadric the Grasper, released October 5, 2010**

  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

  Thank you for reading books on Archive.BookFrom.Net
Share this book with friends