The Fourth Lost Tale of Mercia: Athelward the Historian Page 3

  *

  In the morning, Athelward felt strangely nervous. He could not even explain why.

  The night before, Golde’s words had echoed at him throughout his entire night meal. His son’s family was visiting that night. His wife had tried to make light conversation and had even asked him about his writing, a topic he normally loved to discuss. But he could not think of much to say. Meanwhile, he had watched his own grandchildren fussing at the table, kicking each other’s stools and playing with their food. Most of all, he stared at his own son, Aethelmaer.

  Aethelmaer was large, fat, and dumb as a rock. Most of the time, Athelward managed to ignore this fact. But last night, he could not. He watched Aethelmaer stuff down his food, fail to reprimand the bad behavior of his children, and continue to say stupid and meaningless things. He spoke proudly of his rapacious hearth companions, his cowering servants, and how he was looking forward to an upcoming Saint’s festival—but he could not even remember the Saint’s name.

  Athelward spoke little at night, but at one point, he could not stop himself. He looked his son in the eyes and proclaimed, “I taught you to read!”

  Aethelmaer stared at him strangely, as he should have, for the statement had little precedent. The fat son had a big bite of food in his mouth which he forced down his throat with a gulp of wine. At last he said, “Um, yes you did. Thank you.”

  “Thank you?” Athelward shook his head. “I don’t want thanks. I want results. Do you ever read anymore, Aethelmaer? Do you use anything I taught you?”

  The young man shrugged his big round shoulders. “Sure I do.”

  “I mean beyond determining charters and taxes.”

  “What else is reading for?” Aethelmaer took another desperate drought of wine.

  Athelward sighed. “Have you started teaching your own children?”

  “They’re too young!”

  “You were younger than them when I began teaching you.”

  “Yeah, and I almost forgot everything!” Aethelmaer laughed nervously, flinging spittle across his plate. “Anyway, I’ll get a monk to teach them. Unless, that is, you expect me to teach them Latin?” He made a wet sound of disgust. “I don’t know why you spend so much time turning history into Latin, Father. Everyone thinks you are mad! I do remember at least one thing you taught me, which is that King Alfred himself wanted history to be written in English, so more people could understand it!”

  Athelward had gripped his dirk and seethed with anger; his wife had sensed his mood and put a calming hand on his arm. But he did not know what to say to her. He could not explain what he was feeling, nor why he was feeling it now.

  As he sat in the solitude of his writing chamber the next morning, anxiously awaiting the strange boy’s arrival, he tried to determine why he felt so upset. He suspected it had something to do with his disappointment in his own son, to whom he had tried to pass off the culmination of his life’s studies. The disappointment had been there for a long time, he realized, but he had ignored it until last night. The woman pleading for her poor son’s education reminded him of the hopes he once entertained for Aethelmaer. Once, he imagined Aethelmaer becoming wise and clever, using his vast knowledge to impress the king and perhaps become the king’s most trusted adviser. He imagined Aethelmaer coming up with brilliant battle schemes, or at least defensive tactics, to push the pagan Vikings from Engla-lond’s shores. Instead, Aethelmaer was another man, like so many, who simply did what he was told, and rarely thought beyond his next meal.

  Aethelward heaved a sigh, and then heard the door creak open.

  The boy stood there, hands clasped in front of him, head bowed so that his unruly hair nearly covered his face. He looked cleaner now, either because this room was so dim, or because his mother had meticulously washed him up for this moment. But the patheticness of his hunched form negated any image of dignity his mother had contrived, and Aethelward knew for certain that the boy wanted to be here even less than Athelward did. He sighed again, thinking it would be best to get this over with as soon as possible.

  “Well then,” said Athelward, “come and sit on this stool.”

  The boy obeyed, but he sank his small body down as if he possessed the weight of a horse. He remained there in silence, head sagging on his little neck, and for a moment Athelward wasn’t sure what to do. Then, as he often did when in doubt, he turned to his books.

  “I, uh … I suppose I should start with our ancestors from Anglia, across the sea. Do you know whom I speak of?” He paused to sip from a goblet of water and let the boy respond, but his reluctant pupil did not even look up. “You ought to know: the Angles and Saxons are responsible for our existence, you and I, here in Engla-lond. The Angles begot the eastern and midland Angles, and many of the people who now live in Mercia, and most the other people north of the River Humber. Then there were the Saxons and Juts, who lived on provinces on either side of Anglia. Five or six centuries ago, the Angles and Saxons both decided to leave their lands and come to Engla-lond. The Saxons, my own ancestors, claimed the lands of Essex, Middlesex, Sussex, and Wessex—and I, you see, am a descendant of the Saxon royal line of Wessex, the same line as King Alfred the Great!” Again, no response. “In any case, the Angles and Saxons fought the people here—that is the Celts—to claim their own homes. But they also forged alliances, to protect each other against common enemies like the Picts and the Irish ...”

  The little boy sniffled.

  Athelward realized he was probably speaking to himself. His eyes darted around his table uncertainly. “Boy,” he grumbled, “what is it you want to learn? I could teach you history, or I could teach you a few letters—though that won’t do you any good, as you’ll never be back here again to learn them all. Or you could sit there and waste your mother’s money!” He waved his hands angrily. “You should at least pay attention! Your mother paid a great deal for you to be here. If you’re to learn anything you should sit up straight, and keep your eyes alert, and—”

  The boy surprised him by obeying. Then the ealdorman gulped with dismay, for as the boy looked up through his tangled curls, he revealed big blue eyes filled with tears. “My lord, why do people fight so much?” he said.

  Athelward cleared his throat and sat up straighter. “For land, and resources, and … and power, I suppose.”

  The little Mercian looked away for a moment, seeming to really ponder this. Then, his eyes rippling with new tears, he said, “Then why did they hurt Algar?”

  “Who?” And then, suddenly, Athelward put it together. “Algar—Lord Alfric’s son?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Oh dear.” He must have meant the same Algar, then, whose eyes had recently been ripped from his skull. He recalled Golde saying she had “rescued” her son from Alfric, which is also when she had stolen the money from Alfric’s abandoned belongings. “Listen, boy … what is your name, again?”

  “Eadric.”

  “Eadric. Did you see Algar get hurt?”

  The boy’s face scrunched up, as if a certain amount of twisting could keep back his tears. He didn’t say anything, but this was answer enough for Athelward. Either he had seen the violence happen, or he had seen its bloody aftermath.

  “I’m sure it’s hard for you to understand what happened to Algar. But it is the perfect example of violence done in the name of power. King Ethelred needed to maintain his power by hurting the man who had wronged him—Lord Alfric. But Alfric escaped, so he punished the next person available.”

  “Algar didn’t do anything wrong!”

  “He was Alfric’s son.” Eadric looked confused. “Our lineage determines our fate, Eadric. Algar was in the wrong by being born of Alfric.”

  “That’s stupid!”

  Athelward glowered. He thought he could guess why a poor little boy like this might say something like that. “Was Algar … was he your brother?”

  Eadric stiffened and became very still. “No. Alfric’s not my father.”

  It seemed like a r
ecited response: one his mother had instilled in him, no doubt. But one had only to look at him to guess his father. “If Alfric’s not, who is?”

  “Um ...” Eadric kicked his feet nervously as he considered his. “Hunwald.”

  “Who?”

  Eadric grew still again, a fierce scowl creating dozens of lines on his round little face. “Why does it matter?”

  “Why does it matter?” Athelward guffawed. “Does your mother teach you nothing?” He grabbed his goblet of water and drank thirstily, as if this would quell his rising anger. When he slammed it back down, he nearly splashed some drops on his parchment, so furious was he. He waved angrily at his manuscripts. “Our fathers make us who we are, Eadric. My great-great grandfather was Ethelred of Wessex, brother of King Alfred the Great! My name means royal protector. I owned this land, and have the responsibility of overseeing many others, because my father and his fathers passed such things on to me.”

  “Can you pass any of that on to me,” said Eadric, “without being my father?”

  Athelward’s mouth hung open. He said nothing for a long while, just stared at the boy in utter horror.

  Then the little boy did something even more ridiculous. He smiled, tears dissipating as his eyes twinkled. “The look on your face!” he snickered.

  Athelward forced his mouth shut, feeling his face turn red nonetheless. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But the answer is no, I can’t pass those things on to you! The idea’s absurd!”

  “All right.” Eadric shrugged, still smiling. “I’d rather do something fun, anyway. None of that sounds like fun.”

  “Fun! It’s not about fun!”

  “Then why do you do it?” The boy was looking curiously at the ealdorman’s books.

  Athelward followed his gaze to the manuscripts: the carefully blotted ink, the leather and gilt decorations encasing the pages, and all of the ridiculous stories contained within. He could have gone into a long speech about how he was protecting his family’s history, and thus that of Wessex. But he did not. Instead, he felt a little smile crease his face, as if of its own will. “Well … I suppose it is a little fun.” He felt a warm wave of joy arise within him out of nowhere, filling him up and rising to his throat. “Hah!” he cried. “I suppose it is a little fun!”

  “No it’s not,” said Eadric, still laughing. “You’re just saying that.”

  “Oh, but it is!” Athelward grabbed his quill and raised it up high. “Sometimes, Eadric, it makes me feel like a king!”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes! I write about great hordes of people, of armies and battles, and sometimes I feel almost like I am orchestrating them myself! Just now, for instance, I was writing about the Battle of Ethandun.” He leaned in close to Eadric, lowering his voice as if to divulge a secret. “The battle took place after King Alfred and his army had been hiding in the marshes of Wessex for a long and miserable year, while the Danes and their leader, Guthrum, managed to take over most of Engla-lond. Wessex, you see, was the only kingdom still resisting the Vikings, and it seemed as if all was lost. Alfred was so desperate that he disguised himself as a minstrel to sneak into the enemy’s camp. But then he gathered all the peoples of Somerset, Wiltshire, and Hampshire, for Alfred had managed to maintain their loyalty despite everything, and he marched upon the enemy, who did not expect it at all! Now—did they win or lose? My quill can determine the answer!”

  Eadric watched with huge eyes, fascinated as Athelward brought the pen back to paper. Teasingly, he wrote a quick word.

  Eadric nearly fell off his stool reaching for the quill. “I want to try! I want to make them win!”

  Athelward pulled it from his reach, but playfully. “Not so fast, now! You don’t even know how to do it!”

  “Let me try!” Eadric