The Lost Tales of Mercia by Jayden Woods
The Lost Tales of Mercia
by Jayden Woods
Copyright 2010 Jayden Woods
Edited by Malcolm Pierce
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Read the Lost Tales in any order you’d like, before or after reading Eadric the Grasper, or completely alone as quick glimpses into an ancient world ...
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The First Lost Tale of Mercia:
GOLDE THE MOTHER
Eadric’s mother thinks she escaped her past until it comes riding to her doorstep. A dangerous ealdorman has just betrayed his people to Viking invaders and now he wants Golde’s support.
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The Second Lost Tale of Mercia:
ETHELRED THE KING
A boy becomes king at eleven years of age, but the cost of the crown is bloodshed.
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The Third Lost Tale of Mercia:
AYDITH THE AETHELING
A stubborn young aetheling searches futilely for respect until she finds it in the company of a doting hearth companion named Hastings.
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The Fourth Lost Tale of Mercia:
ATHELWARD THE HISTORIAN
Golde beseeches an eccentric historian to help her son, but it’s up to young Eadric to win the man’s respect.
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The Fifth Lost Tale of Mercia:
ALFGIFU THE ORPHAN
Alfgifu believes that Eadric Streona murdered her father. To obtain her revenge, she will go to the new Viking king for help.
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The Sixth Lost Tale of Mercia
HASTINGS THE HEARTH COMPANION
A royal hearth companion named Hastings entertains unrealistic notions of how his mistress, Aetheling Aydith, might reward him for his devotion.
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The Seventh Lost Tale of Mercia:
HILDRED THE MAID
Plagued by hunger and a cruel monk, poor Hildred has little choice but to accept the help of a rising thegn named Eadric.
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The Eighth Lost Tale of Mercia:
CANUTE THE VIKING
When Prince Canute develops an unexpected relationship with another Jomsviking, he must decide to what religion he feels most loyal.
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The Ninth Lost Tale of Mercia:
RUNA THE WIFE
Runa leaves her life in the woods to enter a traditional marriage with Thorkell the Tall, but at a very high cost to them both.
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The Tenth Lost Tale of Mercia:
EDMUND THE AETHELING
Young prince Edmund suspects a plot against his father’s life, but he and his siblings can find no one they trust to subvert it.
Clip from “Eadric the Grasper”
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1
The First Lost Tale of Mercia:
GOLDE THE MOTHER
(back to Table of Contents)
“And this year the king and all his witan decreed that all the ships which were worth anything should be gathered together at London, in order that they might try if they could anywhere betrap the army from without. But Aelfric the ealdorman, one of those in whom the king had most confidence, directed the army to be warned; and in the night, as they should on the morrow have joined battle, the selfsame Aelfric fled from the forces; and then the army escaped.”
—The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, Entry For Year 992
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WORCESTERSHIRE
993 A.D.
Even the lazy pigs stirred to life when Alfric and his men came riding over the hills. The hogs rolled and squealed, bobbing up and down on stubby legs as they ran around in mass confusion. The dog barked, lifting wiry haunches from the dirt to point his muzzle and boom his howl of alert. The horizon undulated as the ealdormen’s cavalry sliced black silhouettes against the iron gray clouds. Chills raked down Golde’s skin as she watched, though the breeze brushing her pale hair blew with the warmth of spring.
“Hunwald?” she called. “Hunwald!”
She heard no response from the swineherd: only the thunder of Alfric’s men galloping closer. Then, over the cacophony of thudding hooves, grunting pigs, and barking dogs, she heard a child yelling.
“Mother!”
She turned just as his little hands struck her skirt, pulling and tugging. She looked down at his big blue eyes, unable to be mad at him even though she wished that right now, he would simply disappear. “Eadric, find Hunwald and tell him to put up the pigs.”
“I’ll do it myself.”
Golde shook her head helplessly at the boisterous seven-year-old. Only yesterday, one of the hogs had flattened him in the mud and nearly crushed his chest. Already, he seemed to have forgotten the incident. His thick yellow curls lashed against his face in a visage of defiance. “No,” said his mother, “you’ll help him, and then you’ll feed the pigs yourself while Hunwald joins me inside. Can you do that?”
“I suppose.” As if noticing them for the first time, Eadric stared at the war-horses riding closer. Even in the fading sunlight, the chainmail and weaponry of the riders glinted brightly. “What’s this?” The little boy sounded more exasperated than afraid.
“Off with you!” She kicked his departing rump with too much force to be playful. Sometimes she wondered whether she had sheltered the little boy too successfully from the horrors of the world he lived in. He seemed oblivious to pain and danger.
All too soon, the riding men reached her, flinging dirt onto her dress as they reined their horses to a sudden stop. Despite their intimidating approach, there must have been only a dozen of them, most of them wounded and weary. Foam bubbled from their horses’ mouths and salt whitened their flanks. She squinted disapprovingly as she searched the score of dismounting men for the one she knew to lead them.
He was not a hard man to find. He had a head of such thick, golden curls that he could have been a second sun rising from the east as he pulled off his helm. He wore a blue mantle, though now it was stained with filth and blood, and a tunic of crushed diamond twills in flax covered his mail. It was a garment any outlaw would risk his life to obtain, so Golde thought he was a fool to wear it. He jangled from the weight of his weapons and jewelry as he blundered towards her.
“Oh, Golde!” he cried.
Before she could stop him, he fell against her and wrapped her in an embrace. He probably intended it as an embrace, at least, but it felt more like he simply threw his weight against her and expected her to hold him up.
“I’m done for—disgraced—humiliated—finished!” He clutched her fiercely, his whole frame trembling.
“You’re … pathetic!” She put her hands against his chest and pushed him back with all her might. He staggered, sapphire gaze splintered by fury and sorrow. She noted with some amusement that he had tried to grow a beard, though it was more of a vague yellow haze over his mouth and chin.
“You—you—you dare touch me like that? You miserable wench, I am an ealdorman!”
“Not for long, by the sounds of it. And in any case, I’ve touched you in worse ways than that, Lord Alfric.”
Even in their wearied and frantic state, some of the men chuckled. Alfric looked around uncertainly, unable to smile himself. Behind her own defiant expression, Golde gulped. Alfric was almost always a nervous wreck, but she had never seen him so anxious as this.
The skies growled above them, darkening with a fresh billow of gray clouds.
“Won’t you invite us in?” said Alfric miserably.
Golde could only shake her head in disbelief at the man who was a proud ealdorman one moment and a cowering victim the next. “I have room for you at my table,” she said, “but not the others. I’m afraid they’ll have to shelter in the barn.”
“Or you can stay outside in the rain, if you’d like.” Her blue eyes flashed at Alfric. “Follow me.”
The ealdorman nodded to his men. “Go on then, you spoiled sods—you’ve seen worse!”
And so with great reluctance, Golde led Alfric, the tentative ealdorman of Mercia, into her humble home.