Last Tales of Mercia 1-10 Page 5

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  Dark brown hair fell in chunks into the grass as the servant swept the knife over Osbern’s skull. The twelve-year-old endured the scraping with a firm expression, never flinching, even though his nose had turned red with the chill of the autumn breeze. By the set of his jaw, the young Norman already seemed to picture himself on top of a horse, wielding a sword, and glaring down at the rebellious churls underfoot.

  Osbern’s maple eyes widened when he spotted his father approaching. Richard usually did not roam around his estate unless on horseback. Normally, if he wanted to talk to someone, he sent a servant to bring that person to him. Walking with his clubbed feet on uneven terrain could lead him to fall and embarrass himself. Today, the morning after he had received his letter from King Edward, he used his cane to aid him. He felt as if he could go anywhere and do anything. A gust of wind made him grunt and stagger slightly, but soon enough he righted himself and kept going.

  “Father! How do I look?” asked Osbern FitzRichard in Norman.

  Richard moved closer to survey his son’s haircut. The Saxon who trimmed it clearly did not know the Norman fashion, but he had tried his best to follow Richard’s instructions. The front half of Osbern’s head still possessed a dark mop of hair slicked backward; meanwhile the back half of his skull formed a clean sweeping line down his neck, wholly hairless. Richard smiled, then answered him in English. “You look like a man ready for battle.”

  Osbern grinned from ear to ear, then jumped up from his stool, brushing severed locks of hair from his shoulders. Like Richard, he was born with imperfect legs, but only one of his feet was crooked, so he stood sturdily enough on the other. He still had the body of a boy, but he was growing tall quickly, and he possessed the broad shoulders and thick bones of his father. “So I will get to fight, then?”

  “English, Osbern. English!” Richard waved at the Saxon servant, who gladly scurried away. Richard leaned forward on his cane and lowered his voice. “If you don’t learn to act and think like one of them, they’ll never see you as one of them.”

  “But ... then why did I get this haircut?” Osbern spoke in awkward, halting English, made even more clumsy by the fact he grew anxious.

  “Because it serves a practical purpose. Normans wear shirts of chainmail with coifs covering their neck and heads, unlike the Saxons. If you had long hair like the rest of them it would get stuck in the links!” Explaining it this way made Richard more frustrated. Most Norman customs served a practical purpose, so this argument would not work for everything.

  Osbern did not realize this, however, so he lowered his head and looked duly chastised.

  Richard sighed. “You asked if you will get to fight. I’ve decided you can ride with us to Lundenburg. If there is battle, I will want you to stay far from danger. But you’re of age now. It is time you saw true combat.”

  “Yes, Father!” Osbern grinned from ear to ear. “Will we fight Vikings?”

  “No, no. The situation is a little more sensitive than that, as I tried to tell you last night.” He had been so busy making preparations yesterday evening, such as sending out summons to his tenants and calling for supplies, that perhaps he had neglected explaining everything to Osbern. “Do you remember Earl Goodwin of Wessex?”

  “I think so. The pot-bellied man?”

  Richard considered cuffing Osbern over the head for a remark like that. He didn’t like it when people reduced their conception of others to physical traits alone. It made him worry that they thought the same way about him. But in this case, Goodwin was their enemy, so he let the comment go. “Earl Goodwin is the most powerful lord in Engla-lond next to King Edward himself. But he has offended the king by refusing to punish some Saxons who got in a fight with one of King Edward’s guests. The Saxon fought with a Norman, Count Eustace of Boulougne, the step-father of our friend Lord Mantes. Do you follow?”

  Osbern took a few moments to ponder this. His little brow furrowed in thought. Richard waited for so long he nearly gave up on hearing a response. Then Osbern blurted, “And Lord Mantes has been arguing with Swein, Earl Goodwin’s son. Another reason for us to hate Goodwin’s family!”

  “Very good!” Richard was genuinely surprised. He didn’t know Osbern had been paying such close attention. “So you see that we need to show our support of the king right now, not only for his sake, but our own. Goodwin is using this opportunity to challenge all of the king’s Norman allies. We must remind everyone of our right to be here, as well as our ongoing devotion to King Edward.”

  “Yes. But ... what right do we have to be here?”

  Richard’s blood rose suddenly to a searing temperature. He couldn’t believe that question had just come from his own son’s mouth. “We protected King Edward while his fellow English cast him out for a Viking! If not for us Engla-lond would probably be ruled by more Viking bastards at this fucking moment!”

  Osbern had paled at the sound of his father’s yelling. Then he gulped and said, “Right. So we are going to stab Earl Goodwin through his pot-bellied gut.”

  “Damn right we will!”

  Osbern’s grin returned. “So when do we leave?”

  “Very soon, if all our subjects arrive on time today. Perhaps we should we check with Bartholomew and see if they’re all here yet.”

  The servants’ quarters were in a squat cabin across from Richard’s own hall. It took him a good while to walk there, and he hated that Osbern slowed his own pace to keep up with his father. Fortunately, as long as Richard focused on the upcoming glory of leading his first Anglo-Saxon army—or, as they called it, a fyrd—to battle, he could ignore all relative discomforts.

  Before they reached the servants’ cabin, they passed the stables. Richard stopped and nudged Osbern towards it. “While we’re here I want to show you something. Go on in.”

   Together they entered the thick atmosphere of the stables, which stung their noses with the stench of hay and manure. Even though Richard knew the smell should be unpleasant, it always brought him comfort, for it transported him to some of his earliest memories of Normandy, saddling and supplying his war-horse for the first time. Now he hoped to give Osbern a similar experience. He waited until their eyes could adjust to the dimness of the barn, then pointed to a horse several stalls down.

  “There. The brown one. Do you see?”

  Osbern approached slowly, reverently. The young mare hung her head over the stable door, nostrils flaring as Osbern limped closer. He reached out a hand and she flinched, then brushed her muzzle across his fingers. Osbern’s eyes twinkled with delight.

  “She is still young and inexperienced, but she has begun her training as a Norman war-horse. She will be as useful a weapon to you in battle as your sword or spear. Her hooves can break through barriers and knock men to the ground. More importantly ...” He cleared his throat self-consciously. “She will be your legs, whenever you need them.”

  Osbern nodded gravely, understanding. “Merci, mon père.”

  “Now let’s see to our fyrd-men.”

  They finished their walk to the servants’ quarters, where Richard expected to find his new soldiers gathered.

  At first, Richard thought he had walked into the wrong building, for it was utterly silent inside. Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he only saw empty cots and blankets. It appeared as if everyone had gathered their things and run away with them. The raised fire in the middle of the hall lay dark and ashen. He suspected no one had been here all morning.

  “That’s strange,” said Richard. “Perhaps Bartholomew has taken them elsewhere.”

  They moved back outside, only to find Bartholomew walking towards them. The small reeve stopped and gawked at them, ashen-faced.

  “Bartholomew?” Rising anger grated the edge of Richard’s voice. “Where is everyone? What’s going on?”

  “I ... I ... I don’t know, my lord. They told me they would be here. They told me they would have their supplies together and ...”

  Bartholomew c
ontinued rambling in search of an explanation, but Richard could barely hear him through the roar of anger in his ears. He took deep, heaving breaths in an attempt to dispel it. The presence of his son helped him find his patience. “Perhaps we did not give them enough time,” he interjected. “Perhaps if we just wait a little longer ...”

  The thunder of hoofbeats reverberated up Richard’s ankles. He turned to see Sir Geoffrey riding closer, along with a few other knights and Norman tenants. They should have been arriving with a host of reinforcements, but instead only a few surly stragglers rode behind them. Perhaps there were only a dozen men in all.

  Staying his accusations, Richard waited until one of his knights, Fulbert, came forward. The older man was one of his favorite vassals in Normandy, though ever since he moved to Engla-lond, he was more prone to quiet contemplation than active servitude. “My lord, the Saxon thegns have abandoned us.”

  Richard staggered in place. Osbern, who must have worried that his father would fall, reached out to steady him. Richard struck him away so hard that Osbern stumbled to the ground, and Richard might have lost his own balance if not for his cane. The fact Osbern actually fell only angered him further. Given Osbern’s one good foot, he should have had better balance than his father.

  Trying to ignore the blunder, Richard looked back to his men. This turn of events was so inconceivable he struggled to form a response. “How can that be? You mean they’re just gone?”

  “We believe the fyrd-men and Saxon thegns rode off to join Swein, son of Earl Goodwin.”

  “WHAT? Their families too?”

  Fulbert gulped. “Their families hide in their homes for now. Did you want us to ... punish them?”

  Richard felt dizzy. How could this be happening? He had been kind and patient with his Saxon tenants. He had done everything he could to bend to their ways and keep them content. Now they would not even ride with him to support their own king in battle. Instead they rode to the defense of Earl Goodwin, a man who stood blatantly against the Norman allies of King Edward.

  For a moment he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say. His world seemed to unravel. If he punished the families of the men who rode with Swein Goodwinson, they would never forgive him. But if he did not, they would live forever believing they could defy him and get away with it. That was something he could not abide. Either way, he could not afford to lose the fyrd-men permanently. He had not brought enough Normans with him to create his own army.

  “Suzerain?”

  His men waited for a response from him, some master plan that would help them all save face before King Edward. Even Osbern, chastised by his blow, looked expectantly at his father from beneath his droopy brow.

  Richard searched his men’s faces desperately. How did they feel about this? What did they want? His gaze landed on that of Sir Geoffrey, the quiet man who brought him news of the war, and whose cold golden eyes sent a chill to his bones. Why was Geoffrey so calm? What was his secret? And then Richard realized something even stranger: of the few Saxons who had ridden here today with the Normans, they all sat closest to Geoffrey.

  “You,” Richard called. “Geoffrey. How did you recruit so many?”

  For a moment, Geoffrey actually looked abashed. His fellow Normans refused to look at him. At last he said, “I threatened them and their families, Suzerain.”

  Richard did not doubt it. He also did not like receiving confirmation that fear would be the only effective tool against his Saxon tenants. He had been too gracious to those under his care. And this was how they repaid his kindness.

  “Merde,” he snarled, and curled his fingers into fists. Then he sent his voice booming across his manor. “We should not delay our journey. But when we return, we will take care of this!”

  He would let his anger cool somewhat. But he strongly suspected it would not go away.