The Lost Tales of Mercia (7 page)

Aydith set her mouth in a firm line,
glaring. “It’s not just about Mother. It’s about our father
appearing
weak
.” The word made her blood burn with
nervousness. It was a word her own mother had used to describe
Ethelred often, but she had never dared repeat it until now.
Aethelstan blinked with surprise. “First the Danegald. He took the
people’s money and gave it to the Danes to buy peace; but the Danes
only come back for more. Now this: marrying a Norman! When the only
solution is to keep fighting!”

Suddenly Aydith became all too aware that
she and Aethelstan were not alone. She saw the looks of shock on
the maids’ faces, and the abashed expression of Hastings, who
seemed embarrassed just to hear such things. Meanwhile Aethelstan’s
face turned bright red. He was not the sort to get angry, but even
he had his limits.

“What―what I mean is ...” Aydith drooped in
her chair, her voice slurring to something of a mumble. “What I
mean is that these things make him look weak. Not that he is.”

Aethelstan lifted his chin, which seemed to
require a great deal of effort, for his body seemed as stiff as
clay when cooked to the shattering point. Despite this, he managed
to keep his voice at a low, but grating, pitch. “Everyone … please
leave the room.”

Their eyes wide, the maids got up and
scurried out. Aydith was relieved, though she shuddered to think
how they would gossip about the scene they’d already witnessed.
Hastings, however, stood still.

“The king commanded me to watch her, my
lord,” he said.

Aethelstan did not seem to care, nor even
notice that Hastings remained, for all of his concentration was
focused on Aydith. When the maids were gone, he stormed up to her
table and grabbed one of the books.

“Hey―!” shouted Aydith.

He pulled it out of her reach. “You’ve been
reading too many of these stories!”

“They’re not stories!” cried Aydith. “They
are
history!
They chronicle the past of all Engla-lond, and
even some other parts of the world, Aethelstan!”

But because he had picked up the book, his
eyes found yet something else: the wooden woman. He seized this
next, and Aydith cried out with dismay.

“If those are history, then what is this?”
Her brother turned it in his hands, trying to figure it out for
himself. “Is this the Lady Aethelfleda you always talk about?”

She clutched for it, but he stepped back so
far that she almost stumbled to the floor. “Give it back!” The
pitch of her voice rose nearly to a scream.

“I grow weary of hearing you speak of her,”
said Aethelstan. “'Lady of the Mercians.’ Her story may be history,
but it is still ridiculous! The Archbishop was right: reading has
filled your head with nonsense.”

Aydith clutched her face, nails digging into
her cheeks. “He … he said that?”

Aethelstan lowered the figurine somewhat,
taking her sorrow for submission. “Aydith, women should not lead
armies, nor rule in the place of an ealdorman.” He said it so
calmly, so matter-of-factly. “Your nature is to be peaceful and
supportive. It is the role God chose for you. I thought you knew
that?”

She shuddered. “But … she took Derby … and
built burgs … and―”

“Her husband was dead,” said Aethelstan.
“That was different. There was no one else to do it. Do you
remember what happened after she died, and Mercia fell to the
spindle side? Her daughter failed to rule, and had to give it up to
her brother, and … oh I forget the rest.” He looked frustrated.
“What does it matter? It’s not even your concern!”

“Please, Aethelstan, I’m … I’m trying to be
good.” She felt cold inside out, and trembled uncontrollably. “I’m
trying to do what’s right. Tell me what to do.”

He thought about this long and hard. Then
his eyes fixed on the figurine. “First, you have to forget about
her.” He walked towards the brazier.

“... What?” Aydith scrambled to her feet.
“What are you doing?”

Without any ceremony, he opened the brazier
and tossed the figurine into the flames. Aydith put her hands over
her mouth to cover her squeal.

Aethelstan stared into the brazier with deep
concentration, the bright orange light glinting in his eyes.
Despite all this, he seemed unsatisfied. He picked up a poker and
jabbed angrily at the embers, little sparks and pieces of burning
ash spraying up in a gruesome fountain.

“I will do that, my lord,” said
Hastings.

Aethelstan blinked with surprise, having
forgotten Hastings’s presence. He passed off the poker. “Er, thank
you,” he said.

Hastings took up the job of stoking the fire
with a grim, firmly-set expression. For some reason, Aydith felt
even more betrayed now than when Aethelstan had done it, for she
had thought maybe Hastings understood her mind. But of course, that
was foolish, and in both instances Hastings was only doing his
duty, serving the lord and lady according to their respective
ranks.

She crumpled in on herself, feeling her
tears return. Her eyes had nearly run dry, she thought. Perhaps
that was for the best.

Aethelstan walked up and stood over her. His
voice was soft. “Come now, sister. It’s for your own good.”

“I know. Th-thank you, brother.” She could
not bring herself to look at him. “Now … please leave.”

He remained there a moment, unmoving. She
did not bother to glance at his expression; she did not care. At
last he turned, and she listened to the heavy thuds of his boots as
he walked out, and shut the door softly behind him.

Aydith did not budge for a long while. She
tried to find some peace and quietude within her mind, not thinking
about anything else. She forgot Hastings was even in the room until
she heard him shutting the lid of the brazier, and she shuddered.
She had managed to forget the destruction of her figurine until she
heard that terrible sound.

“My lady,” said the hearth companion
softly.

“Don’t speak to me,” snapped Aydith. She
wished she could order him to leave, but she knew she could not. He
would follow the king’s will over hers, as he should.

He walked closer to her, his feet treading
much more quietly than Aethelstan’s, even though he was a bigger
man. She smelled the ash and smoke that must have blown on him from
the fire he encouraged, and it made her sick to her stomach.

She she heard a loud
thunk
, and
turned to see that he had dropped something on the floor. She
gasped aloud. It was blackened with soot, but it did not look very
damaged. It was the Lady Aethelfleda.

She reached to grab it, then dropped it very
quickly, for it was still hot. Even so, she grinned from ear to ear
as she looked up at Hastings. “What ... how ... ?”

“It simply would not burn, my lady.” But his
eyes twinkled with mischief as he smiled.

“Oh―oh―oh thank you, Hastings!” Before she
could restrain herself, she got up, opened her arms wide, and flung
herself against the hearth companion. She hugged him tight, her
face smashed against his tunic just beneath his chest, the musky
scent of his wools and sweat and leather filling her nose.

She realized after a moment how still he
was, and quickly pulled away. This must be very unseemly. She
turned around and felt her cheeks burning with a blush. Surely it
was not normal for a male hearth companion to be alone with a woman
in her chamber, but then again, many of today’s circumstances were
not normal. She was only eleven years old, of course; but if she
remembered correctly, so was the Lady Emma of Normandy, who would
soon be marrying her father. If not eleven, Emma was only a year or
two older. Officially, Aydith was of a marrying age, herself. She
had already begun her monthly cycle.

Feeling a bit shy and confused, she picked
up the wooden figure from the floor―it was cool enough now to
touch―and clutched it close to her. She cleared some of the soot
from the wood, and as she revealed the woman underneath, she felt
as if Aethelfleda looked different to her now than she had
before.

“I ... I know little of history,” said
Hastings from the shadows. “Would you tell me about the Lady
Aethelfleda?”

Aydith took a deep breath, her heart
fluttering. It took no effort to tell the story of Aethelfleda; she
did not even have to search her memory. “She was born over a
hundred years ago, the daughter of the great King Alfred,” she
began. “Her husband was named Aethelred, like my father. Their
marriage helped bring the Angles and Saxons of Engla-lond together,
and united the kingdom against the Vikings. But he died. After his
death she ruled in his place, and the people called her the Lady of
Mercia, serving her almost like a queen. She built burgs and walls
all around the cities and boundaries of Mercia. She was a brilliant
strategist. She led armies against the Danes, and took back the
cities of Leicester and Derby. She even fought and recruited the
Welsh. She ruled for almost eight years before she died.”

She looked down at the toy in her hands.
Suddenly, it had gone from being scorching hot to numbingly cold,
and it looked ugly under its mask of black soot.

“And then her daughter, Aelfwynn, tried to
rule in her mother’s place. But Aethelstan was right. She was
weak.”

She walked back to the brazier and opened
the lid.

“My lady?” Hastings took a step towards her,
then stopped. “What are you doing?”

“Aethelstan’s right. I shouldn’t keep such
toys.”

Her hand trembled as she lifted the figurine
over the fire’s glow. She realized the fire was burning even higher
than she had anticipated. How had the figurine not burned before?
Had Hastings removed it from the fire right away? He must have, so
she tried to get mad at him for it, seeking anger to give her
strength. He had deceived his own lord, an aetheling! Perhaps he
was not trustworthy at all.

She felt a twinge of pain in her heart, then
she dropped the figurine into the flames. Before she could change
her mind, she threw down the lid.

She looked at Hastings, and he was scowling.
His normally kind eyes were narrowed, stinging her like alcohol
splashed on an open wound.

“Oh,” she cried suddenly. “I wish you would
go away!”

He bowed his head, though his fists were
clenched at his sides. Ethelred had told him not to let Aydith
leave his sight, and he stayed true to this as he backed away, ever
so slowly, moving further and further from the aetheling.
Eventually he was covered with shadows, and stood on the far side
of the room, and such a quiet fell over them that it seemed as if
he truly was gone, after all.

Aydith got up and dragged her feet toward
her bed. So much crying and fussing had exhausted her. She
collapsed on her knees before even climbing onto her soft sheets,
and folded her hands below her forehead. She closed her eyes and
whispered, so softly that she hoped Hastings could not hear
her.

“Dear Lord, Father in Heaven, show me what
to do. Teach me humility and give me understanding. Drive the
terrible pagans from Engla-lond. Smite down our enemies with your
Holy power, or show me what I can do in your stead. Amen.”

It was a prayer she had muttered a few times
before, a prayer she had devised and felt very proud of, but it
seemed even more significant now than it had in the past.

Feeling somewhat better, she climbed onto
her sheets and drifted promptly to sleep.

*

Nightmares prevented her from resting that
night.

She dreamt of the Vikings making their way
through Engla-lond, burning homes and stabbing children, stealing
food and pissing on what they didn’t want, taking slaves and
killing monks.

She relived the horrendous scene she had
witnessed when she was four years old. She hid in a church in
Lundenburg when Sweyn Forkbeard and his army attacked the old Roman
city. They burned whatever they could, and even in the big stone
church the smoke stung Aydith’s eyes and filled her chest with a
terrible cough. Then some of them broke in, and one of them stabbed
a monk until his sword came out the other side, and he didn’t even
stop there. His blade opened the monk wide, and even though
Aydith’s maid tried to put a hand over the little girl’s eyes, she
still saw everything, spilling onto the church floor.

Then something strange happened in her
dream. She grew up suddenly and became Aethelfleda. She married the
ealdorman of Mercia and bore him children. But at the same time,
she was already ensuring her role as the Lady of Mercia. She did
this by advising her husband and signing his documents. People
began to call her the Lady of Mercia long before her husband died
and she led armies against the pagans.

Next she led a fyrd against Sweyn Forkbeard,
even though he had not yet been born in the time of Aethelfleda. He
had fought the men of Hampshire, and killed so many noble men, and
his Viking warriors ran all about burning and destroying. But she,
this new version of Aydith, knew exactly where they were headed
next, and knew how to gather an army there that could stop them.
But she could not gather the fyrd herself. She would have to tell
her husband to do it.

She woke up trembling and covered with
sweat, but even as she clutched her sticky blankets, a smile
stretched her face.

“Hastings? Hastings!”

She sat up, searching for him in the
darkness. Only a few candles remained lit, and the brazier had
faded to the dull red glow of its embers. A shadow moved and she
turned hopefully, but she only saw one of her dim-witted maids,
peering at her with a weary face.

“He was relieved of duty, my lady.”

Aydith plopped back down on her sheets,
strangely disappointed, even though Hastings was not the man to
which her dream, and thus God, had directed her.

She had no husband, of course, and her
father would not listen to her; but she had two older brothers who
were in line to take the throne and could make important decisions.
She knew without a doubt that God wanted her to keep talking to
Aethelstan, just as Aethelfleda had signed her husband’s documents.
She would do so more humbly, next time. Just like Aethelfleda, she
would provide support to those in power, and they would not even
notice what power she obtained for herself, in the meantime.
Besides, power was not the point. The point was to save Engla-lond
from the pagans.