The Lost Tales of Mercia (16 page)

“What’s wrong, Hastings? Thought your pagan
friends would rescue you?”

Hastings squinted in confusion at the shape
looming over him. It was Ulfcytel, and he smelled of horse. His
beard lay matted against his neck. His eyes seemed to gleam and
twirl like a lizard’s. Hastings felt dizzy.

“You’re caught, Hastings. I figured it out.
The Danes sent you and that ridiculous scroll. You did it so some
of my best men would get killed, and so my cousin—my own brave
cousin—would be captured!
Captured!
”

Hastings’s memory tried desperately to make
sense of Ulfcytel’s anger. He recalled cheering, and joy, and the
elation of being alive. It was one of the last things he remembered
before passing out from the pain in his chest and his overall
exhaustion. So why was Ulfcytel so angry? A lot of men had died, of
course ... so many that it seemed impossible to tell one bloody
face apart from the next. But in the end, the Danes had fled to
their ships, leaving most of their plundered goods behind, and many
of their own mightiest warriors. It had seemed in many ways like a
victory.

“What does he want?” growled Ulfcytel.
“Money? Women? Why would this Golden Cross want to capture my
cousin?”

Hastings moaned, too many thoughts rushing
to his brain to speak at once. He wanted to respond, to say that
the Golden Cross would never oppose a man so brave and loyal to the
Anglo-Saxons as Ulfcytel, that maybe Sweyn just wanted money for
this hostage; who knew? Maybe his men even thought Ulfcytel’s
cousin would make a good Viking? Whatever the case, Ulfcytel had
the completely wrong idea about everything, and Hastings wanted to
tell him so; but instead he could not seem to draw breath, mush
less utter a word, and all that came from his throat was a long
drawn-out groan.

Ulfcytel leaned closer to him, as if to try
and decipher the guttural sounds from Hastings’s mouth. Instead he
only grew more frustrated. “Tell me,” snarled the high reeve. “Tell
me now. Who is the Golden Cross? Whoever he is I’m going to find
him, and cut out his heart, and eat it for breakfast. I am
Ulfcytel!”

Even Hastings’s swollen eye opened wide as
he stared in bafflement at the warlord. How was this happening?
Where had it gone all wrong? How could the Golden Cross, someone
who only wanted to aid the Anglo-Saxons in defending their coasts,
seem suddenly like the cruelest of enemies to a man like Ulfcytel?
It would have been bad enough for the Golden Cross to go unheeded,
for the Vikings to collect their Danegald and sail off with sagging
pockets; but this ... this was something far worse.

“TELL ME!”

The tip of Ulfcytel’s boot hurled into
Hastings’s chest.

He felt as if his insides were tearing
apart. He could not even cry out with pain. His chest seemed to
collapse, and all air and breath with it. His vision flashed red,
his body flailed, and then he went still.

Even if he could have talked, he would not
have. He would never give away the Golden Cross’s secret.

Ulfcytel stood over him a long while,
breathing hard. The next time his leather boots creaked against the
floorboards, Hastings’s heart made a painful lurch of fear.

But then Ulfcytel turned and walked out, and
closed the door behind him.

The last of Hastings’s breath was lost in a
whimper, and his mind spun into unconsciousness.

*

Aydith reached to him from the shadows.

“Oh, Hastings, you have fought so
bravely.”

Now he only wore thin linens, and the
sliding fabric sent ripples along his skin as she raked her nails
along it. Her fingers trailed up his torso onto the bare skin of
his chest. When she put her warm palm against the bruise, it ceased
to ache.

He reached up and put his hand against
hers.

“My lady … I am glad you are pleased.”

“Pleased?” She made a sad sound. She leaned
closer to him, her dark hair falling over her shoulders and
tickling his chest. Her fingers trailed up, scraping the grizzly
hairs of his neck, then cradling his face along her palm. “I would,
but I hate to see you in so much pain. You should be rewarded for
what you’ve done.”

“My reward is to see you happy, my lady.” He
slid his hand along her arm, then under the hem of her sleeve.
“Although ...”

“Yes?”

His hand kneaded the soft flesh of her
shoulder. “I would make you happy all my life if I could,” he said.
“We could reward each other all our lives, you and I, if ...” He
grew still.

“If what?”

“If I was your husband.” His hand slid
further into her dress.

“Hastings,” she breathed, and fell against
him with a thud.

“Hastings.”

Her hands shook him, then seemed to grow
larger. The grip tightened and yanked him across the floor more
violently. The pain returned to his chest.

“Hastings!”

The hearth companion groaned and opened his
eyes. He looked through swollen, slanted lids at a face that was
bound to disappoint him, for it was not Aydith’s. But it could have
been worse. It could have been Ulfcytel’s.

“Lord Aethelstan!” he cried.

In his clearing vision the aetheling was a
thing of beauty, freshly groomed and glistening with ornaments, his
eyes soft and sincere as they searched Hastings’s body.

“Are you hurt?” asked the prince.

“No, ah—” A hoarse, guttural sound poured
out of his throat as Aethelstan started to lift him off the floor.
“A little.”

A shadow fell over Aethelstan’s golden hair,
and both the men tensed. “Who’s there?” snapped the aetheling.

“It is I, Ulfcytel!”

Releasing Hastings, Aethelstan turned on the
high reeve with fists clenched. “I should have you thrashed for
treating a royal retainer with such cruelty! What did he do to
deserve it?”

“I … I … I was confused, my lord. I thought
he had tricked me. I thought he had taken something from me. I
thought—”

“But now you see that you were mistaken?”
Aethelstan hurried on.

“Y-yes, my lord. I see that now.”

Hastings searched his cloudy memories of the
last few days. How long had he been trapped in this hot, dusty
room? Days? Weeks? People had brought him bread and water.
Sometimes he had crawled to the latrine. He had slept a great deal,
and had a fever. But he had blocked most sensations and events from
his consciousness so that he did not have to think about the pain
in his chest. If he searched his memory deeply enough, he did
remember hearing things, sometimes. He had heard more celebrating,
more good cheer, and at one point he thought he had heard someone
announce that Ulfcytel’s cousin escaped and returned home. Later he
had dismissed it as a dream, for no one came to release him as he
hoped. But after that Ulfcytel had never returned to beat him.

“I’m glad you recognize your mistake.”
Ulfyctel flinched as Aethelstan lifted his arm, but it was only to
clap the high reeve on the shoulder. “Because altogether, you have
done very well, Ulfcytel. I’m sure it would not always be wise, but
the decision to put your best men in front in your situation was
ingenious! The Danes themselves say they have never faced such
masterful hand-play as you gave them. My father is pleased.”

“I—” Ulfcytel looked uncertainly at
Hastings, then away again. Hastings just glared at him. “I thank
you, my lord.”

“It is King Ethelred who wishes to thank
you,
Ulfcytel,” said Aethelstan. He pulled a scroll from his
tunic and offered it up. “He brings you this message.”

Ulfcytel took the scroll, then his eyes
doubled in size. He was staring at the seal. “This is your
insignia, my lord?”

“Why, yes.”

Gulping, Ulfcytel looked at Hastings.
Hastings smirked. Understanding passed between them. The seal on
this scroll was the same that had been on the one from the Golden
Cross. The high reeve was not very smart, but he seemed to be
piecing some things together, nonetheless.

Ulfcytel bowed low. “It was my greatest
pleasure to serve your wishes, my lord.”

“Ah … thank you. And I hope that you will
continue to … serve my wishes, Ulfcytel. For you are to become
Ealdorman of East Anglia.”

“My lord!” Words failed the warrior, who
planted his fist against his chest and bowed low. “My lord, I am so
honored.”

“Good. But we have a great deal to discuss,
you understand. The first matter being your marriage to my
sister.”

Hastings’s mouth fell open. Surely he heard
wrong? He tried to say something, but his words became mangled by
the pain in his chest, and all that he said was a painful
grunt.

Aethelstan looked over at the hearth
companion, concerned. “Before we discuss anything, you should send
someone to tend this man’s wounds and provide him refreshment. Go
on!”

Ulfcytel bowed his head with a curt motion,
then stomped away.

Despite his aching torso, Hastings rose up
to his knees and shuffled closer to the aetheling. “Tell me, my
lord—tell me I heard wrong!”

Aethelstan’s pale brows furrowed together.
“What’s that?”

It was all happening too fast. He felt
dizzy. He reached out and gripped the prince’s tunic so he could
steady himself. He tried to look the aetheling in the eye. “I don’t
… understand. Marriage, already?”

“Of course.” Aethelstan looked confused.
“Doesn’t it please you to see Ulfcytel rewarded?”

“But—Aydith!” Her name came from his lips
more desperately than he would have wished, but he could not help
himself, so great was his inner torment.

“Oh, not Aydith. Hah!” Aethelstan reached
down and gripped Hastings’s hands, which were starting to slip. “No
wonder you were so confused, Hastings. Ulfcytel will marry
Aetheling Wulfhild.”

“Ah.” Relief wrapped around Hastings like a
cooling salve, but left his mind roiling in confusion. “But why not
Aydith?”

“Aydith wouldn’t have it,” said Aethelstan.
“As soon as she caught wind of Father’s notions to reward Ulfcytel,
she made her position painfully clear. If she were married to
Ulfcytel, she would make the new ealdorman miserable for the rest
of his life.”

Hastings smiled despite himself. “And why do
you think she would do that?”

“Because she is a foolish girl, and
infatuated with someone else. Apparently enough so to make my
father pay attention.”

A tremble wracked the hearth companion. “Did
she … did she say with whom?”

Aethelstan brushed at Hastings’s fingers,
clearly tiring of their grip. “I don’t recall if she said it aloud.
She didn’t need to. Everyone knows. It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Hastings felt as if he might faint.

“It was many seasons ago when that strange
churl, Eadric of Mercia, visited the palace, and yet she speaks as
if it happened yesterday. You remember when he visited Father two
years ago? Well, of course you do. It was a horrible day.”
Aethelstan grew silent in respect for the gruesome memories of that
Saint Brice’s day two years ago.

But instead of feeling reverent, Hastings
found himself seething. Eadric of Mercia? What did
he
have
to do with anything?

“For whatever reason,” Aethelstan went on at
last, “Aydith goes on and on about that conceited young swineherd.
Although I suppose he’s not a swineherd anymore. What does it
matter? She keeps saying she’ll marry a man of Mercia one day—as if
it would be him! By the cross, I am starting to believe that the
nobility of her husband would hardly matter, so long as she gets
married, am I right?”

Aethelstan laughed, but Hastings only
glowered at the floor. He felt as if someone had reached out and
punched him in the ribs again. So, Aydith went on and on about
Eadric of Mercia? Or at least Aethelstan thought so? Could the
prince be wrong? After all, Hastings spent more time with Aydith
than her brother did, and he had never heard her say things like
that. Or had he? So many of his own thoughts were muddling together
in his head that he quickly grew confused.

His breath grew faster and heavier, making
him grind his teeth in pain. “Do you mean that?” he growled.
Aethelstan stopped chuckling and looked at him curiously. “Would
the nobility of her husband not matter to you?”

Aethelstan frowned. “Hastings, you don’t
look well. You should probably get some rest.”

“I’VE RESTED PLENTY!”

He exerted so much breath that his ribs felt
as if they were lit on fire, and the aetheling took a step
backwards. A long, terrible silence filled the emptiness his shout
left behind.

Aethelstan spoke through clenched teeth.
“Then perhaps you should eat, and return to Lundenburg. And … while
you’re at it ...” He forced his chin up indignantly. “You should
remember your place!”

With a turn of his heel, Aetheling
Aethelstan strode away.

Hastings groaned and rolled down onto his
back. The floorboards were hot and searing against him, yet he felt
as if he might never get up again.

Perhaps Aethelstan was wrong. Perhaps he
misread Aydith entirely.

His fists clenched at his sides. His muscles
constricted along his chest and made the pain all the sharper. For
he knew that it did not matter what—or who—Aydith wanted.

Whatever it was, whomever it was, Hastings
would help her attain it.

**

7

The
Seventh Lost Tale of Mercia:

HILDRED THE MAID

(Or go back to
TABLE OF
CONTENTS
)

“
This year was the great famine in England so
severe that no man ere remembered such.”

—Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, Entry For Year 1005 A.D.

*

SHREWSBURY, MERCIA

1005 A.D.