The Fourth Lost Tale of Mercia: Athelward the Historian (2 page)

“Blood?” She looked puzzled. “If by blood you
mean we are not in the family of some great king like you, then
that’s all the more reason for you to help him ‘make the best of
it.’”

Athelward wanted to keep shaking his head,
but a small crowd had gathered, and he found himself in an unusual
situation. Her proposal was absurd, but indeed, she offered him a
pouch of money, and it would look wrong for him to turn it down. He
glanced angrily at the people around him: soldiers, servants,
visiting thegns, and a few begging churls. He had made a speech to
every single one of them, years ago, that their money could serve a
greater purpose than buying mere food and clothing: it could buy
them peace from the Danes. Now, a woman stood before him, asking to
use her money for something greater than a physical comfort. How
could he deny her that, in front of so many witnesses?

And yet, even accounting for his own unusual
philosophy, her request was absurd. Surely everyone else could see
that? “I am an ealdorman,” he repeated. “I don’t have the time to
educate a bastard child.”

Perhaps he had gone too far. He could feel
the disappointment of his people around him; they pursed their
lips, lowered their heads, and exchanged knowing glances that
seemed to say, “I knew he would disappoint us.” Meanwhile, the
woman Golde’s cheeks flushed bright red, and when she clenched her
fists, he saw the veins bulge along her forearm. No doubt she
possessed more strength than her small figure suggested.

“Time?” she said. A breeze gushed as if from
nowhere, rustling her dress and tossing her hair, making the rest
of her appear even sturdier. “You bought all of Engla-lond a year
of peace—almost a year, at least—with ten thousand pounds. So if
time can be money, tell me, my lord: how much of your time is this
pouch worth?”

She held it out again, and he felt so
flustered that his face burned hot. She was turning his own ideas
against him. She was clever, but her primary talent seemed to be
throwing his own words back at him, in which case this conversation
could go on forever. It was useless to argue, and to indulge her
any longer would give the people too much to talk about.

He grabbed the pouch and pretended to weigh
it in his hand, calculating. But how could he calculate the worth
of his time? The notion was preposterous. He looked at the boy
again, clutching his mother’s skirts, big blue eyes filled with
something like fear and hopelessness. He was either a churl with
worthless blood, or a bastard, and in either case he was not worth
even a fragment of Athelward’s time. But he had already caused a
great deal to be wasted, nonetheless.

“Bring him to my writing chamber at dawn
tomorrow; I will teach him until mid-morning. That is all.”

Clutching the pouch in one hand and his robes
in the other, Athelward turned and hurried back inside. He could
not erase from his mind the smile of triumph he had seen on Golde’s
face before he tore his eyes from her.

He hoped he had not made some sort of
mistake.

*

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 recited 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?”