The Fifth Lost Tale of Mercia: Alfgifu the Orphan Read online

  “Well go on, let’s fight them!” she cried.

  Most of them fell for it: they drew their blades and ran from the chamber. But one remained behind, sword drawn, determined to ensure that she did not escape.

  So the two of them remained in their dark prison, and he alone witnessed the way she trembled and cowered, unable to face the possibility of defeat. Better to stay here in the haze and darkness, she thought, and let it blind her.

  *

  At nightfall, the noises of battle faded down, to be replaced by the ongoing groans of the injured. At last, hungry and in need of relief, Alfgifu and her escort left the lodge.

  In the twilight, they stumbled among the dead and wounded. The blood shone black in the night. Things squished under her feet that she was grateful she could not see. Embers and dying fires glowed throughout the city brighter than the moonlight. A second sky seemed to hover directly over the turf roofs where all the smoke collected in a thick, smothering blanket. Alfgifu coughed and rubbed her stinging eyes, feeling sticky trails on her cheeks where her eyes had already shed rivers of water.

  Someone reached out and grabbed her ankle, begging for help. She nearly tripped. Resisting the urge to kick him in the face, she kept going.

  Despite all the sobbing, and moaning, and the flames that refused to die, Alfgifu’s heart lifted. The number of dead was tremendous, the Vikings’ stores destroyed, their new horses scattered; but they still held the city. Whatever had happened, Ethelred’s forces had pulled away eventually, and that mattered the most.

  Canute was in his lodge, but one would not have guessed by the silence hovering over it. She recognized some of his chiefs lurking outside, their faces either sullen or furious, but all turned away from Canute’s door. It was strange to her that not all of them were joined in a flurry of conversation and activity.

  The housecarls guarding his door did not let her in at first, though she yelled and argued with them. She should have expected as much; Canute would not talk to his own chiefs right now. Why would he talk to her?

  Then one of them stepped forward, and he said, “If she wants to, why not let her?”

  This surprised her. She realized that Canute must not have forbidden anyone to enter; they were all simply afraid to. She noticed a dead body very close to the door of the lodge, and thought that it was a strange place for someone to have died from the battle. He had recently been stabbed in the chest, it appeared.

  The housecarl followed her gaze. “That’s the last man who tried to go in.”

  “Oh.” She gulped. “Well he won’t hurt me. I’m carrying his child.”

  “You are?”

  She had no idea, yet. But she thought it was a safe assumption. Canute must have assumed the same, or he might have let her escape the night before. She focused on the task at hand. “Do you know what is he doing in there?” she asked.

  The housecarl shook his head helplessly. “He’s … talking.”

  “Talking? To whom?”

  He shrugged.

  She took a deep breath, pushed back her shoulders, and clenched her fists. “Well I’m going in.”

  As her trembling fingers pushed open the door, she reminded herself that she was not afraid of death. Only failure. And it would be a failure if she did not see Canute now, while all of his men were scared to, while he was vulnerable, and while there was no one else on earth he seemed to trust.

  She stepped inside, very quietly, and closed the door behind her.

  Canute was on the other side of the lodge, pacing back and forth along the floorboards, which creaked as if they might soon break apart and drop him into the sunken earth below. He wore no shirt, and his pale skin was splotched with dried blood and bruises. Surely enough, he was talking, though whether to himself or the hanging crucifix on the wall to which he occasionally cast his glance, she wasn’t sure at first.

  “You’re not weak. You’re not idle,” he snarled. “You’re stronger than all of them. You did this on purpose. You let them believe victory was in their grasp. When they see your true strength they will cower. God chose you.”

  So, she realized, he was indeed talking to himself … about himself.

  “You’ll show them,” he went on. “You’re a man. A real man. You’ll even have a son soon ...”

  Feeling more and more uncomfortable, Alfgifu at last announced herself by clearing her throat.

  He turned to her with wild eyes. Then with no hesitation, in one flowing motion, he drew a knife from his belt and made to fling it.

  “You won today,” she said quickly, as if her heart wasn’t racing in her chest.

  He paused.

  “You held your ground. That’s what matters. Now you must make it seem as if Ethelred made a mistake by attacking you at all.”

  He lowered the knife. His eyes cleared, as if realizing for the first time who she was. “Alfgifu. Did God send you?”

  She wanted to gawk at him. He sounded crazy. But she did not think it would be in her best interest to express as much. Instead, she walked closer to him, feigning confidence. “God does everything, doesn’t He?” She could see that this is what he wanted to hear. “And He does it for you, because He wants you to be King of Engla-lond. And Scandinavia.”

  He dropped the knife, which thudded onto the floor.

  She glared up at him, feeling his own gaze traverse her face, and remembering the way he had held her and chopped off her hair. “You said my emotions made me weak,” she hissed. “You were wrong about that, you know. You’re even more governed by your emotions than I am. It’s not what makes us weak. It’s what makes us strong.”

  He flinched as she reached up and put her fingers against his cheek. His eyes were wider than she had ever seen them before, staring at her, desperate, searching. She had him now.

  “Make Ethelred regret attacking you,” she whispered. “Show him that he has asked for his own demise. Make it seem as if this attack is what spurred you to raid the countryside. His people will hate him for it.”

  “Hm,” said Canute. His gaze wandered off as he considered this.

  “And there is another thing you can do.” She clutched his face tighter, pulling his eyes back to hers. Her voice grew even softer, smothered by her emotions, but he listened all the more closely as a result. “The hostages that were given to your father,” she breathed. There were many hostages, as she recalled; but the majority of them had been given by Eadric. They were valuable to him; maybe he even loved some of them. “You must kill them. And make them die slowly. You must take out their eyes, or chop off their limbs.”

  Canute turned his head and kissed her trembling fingertips. “Good idea,” he said.

  **

  RELEASE DATES

  One Lost Tale of Mercia will release every other Tuesday until October 5, the release of the full story of Eadric Streona and his greatest opponent, the Golden Cross. For more news and updates, visit www.jaydenwoods.com.

  The First Lost Tale: Golde the Mother (released May 18)

  The Second Lost Tale: Ethelred the King (released June 1)

  The Third Lost Tale: Aydith the Aetheling (released June 15)

  The Fourth Lost Tale: Athelward the Historian (released June 29)

  The Fifth Lost Tale: Alfgifu the Orphan (released July 13)

  The Sixth Lost Tale: Hastings the Hearth Companion (July 27)

  The Seventh Lost Tale: Hildred the Maid (August 10)

  The Eighth Lost Tale: Canute the Viking (August 24)

  The Ninth Lost Tale: Runa the Wife (September 7)

  The Tenth Lost Tale: Edmund the Aetheling (September 21)

  OCTOBER 5th: The novel, Eadric the Grasper, releases on Amazon

  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 chroni
cle 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 http://talesofmercia.wordpress.com.

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  The Fifth Lost Tale of Mercia: Alfgifu the Orphan