Edric the Wild

By Jayden Woods

The mischievous red-head named Edric leads a pleasant life in Shropshire, hunting in the woods and dancing in the taverns, until his Norman neighbor Osbern falsely accuses him of murder. Edric takes his first stance against the growing power of the Normans--a stance he soon holds for all of Saxon Engla-lond.

Osbern FitzRichard, who moved to Engla-lond at a very young age, yearns with all of his heart for the Anglo-Saxons to love Normandy as much as he does. Unfortunately, Osbern also suffers from strange visions and pestering voices that lead him down dark and destructive paths. His closest knight, Geoffrey, uses his lord's holy prophecies to justify his own evil deeds, which consist of capturing and torturing innocent victims who are never then seen or heard from again.

Edric's struggles against Osbern echo through all of Engla-lond when William the Bastard takes the throne. Edric Silvaticus becomes a true hero to his people who is wed to a "fairy" wife by night and roams the woods to watch over his people by day. He inspires all Saxons to come together and fight against their Norman oppressors.

This Robin Hood-esque story features characters from "Godric the Kingslayer" and villains cruel enough to be in a Grimm fairy tale. Edric fights these evils with true valor, but he must eventually decide whether preserving his people's spirits is worth the loss of their lives, and whether there is truth to be found in the seemingly-crazed ramblings of his own worst enemy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jayden Woods
• Release date: Oct 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301564118

Jayden Woods

Jayden Woods is the author's pen name. Jayden is a graduate of the University of Southern California's Writing for Screen and Television program. She lived and worked in Los Angeles for five years before leaving Hollywood to pursue her passion of writing prose and novels. Her published works include the various Tales of Mercia and the related "Sons of Mercia" trilogy, beginning with "Eadric the Grasper."

Book preview

Part 1:

WOLF

"... [King] Edward [of England] had solicited the assistance of William, duke of Normandy. Tranquility was hardly restored, when that prince, with a powerful fleet, reached the coast of England. As his services were no longer wanted, he landed with a gallant train of knights, was kindly received by the king, visited several of the royal villas, and was dismissed with magnificent presents."

—Lingard, John. The History of England from the

First Invasion by the Romans, Vol.1. (410-411)

London, 1845

Chapter 1

Winter 1059 A.D.

On his sixteenth birthday, Edric became intoxicated for the first time and made an unusual resolution. I am going to punch Osbern FitzRichard in the face, he declared.

Whether he would have made such a decision without so much wine in his bloodstream, one could hardly say. Perhaps the wine gave him an excuse. He had certainly wanted to punch Osbern many, many times before. But he had never decided to go through with it until now.

His dear friend, Leofred, fixed him with a drunken stare of his own. The young man had hardly downed a single horn of alcohol, and yet he was already swaying about on his seat. Despite this, he seemed to maintain a better state of mind than Edric. Um … that does not seem like a good thing to do.

Edric’s gaze narrowed on the young noble on the other side of the tavern. Osbern FitzRichard was as Norman as they came. His dark hair was cut high up his head, so short that his pale skin remained visible up the back of his neck to the top circle of his scalp. He wore a long flowing tunic and a short mantle about his shoulders. He had big, droopy lips and cruel, gleaming eyes. Most offensively, he was now making a clumsy attempt to dance to the beat of the harpist’s jig. His leather boots flopped erratically against the floorboards.

Just look at him tumble, Leofred, said Edric. I think it would be a mercy to everyone in this tavern to flatten him now.

Leofred followed his gaze and grimaced. By God, you’re right.

Edric took another swig of wine, hissing through his teeth as he swallowed the sweet liquor. He felt like a strong man, as large and burly as his father, as he pushed himself up to his feet. Perhaps that was because the spirits made his lean form feel heavier than usual, but never mind that. His curly red hair flashed across his eyes, completing for him the hellish visage of Osbern, the oaf kicking his feet next to the fire.

Osbern’s dancing was indeed un-Godly, but that was not the real reason Edric wished to punch him. His lack of musical coordination was the least of the Norman’s insults to his Anglo-Saxon neighbors. He was a cruel young boy who abused the peasants working his father’s lands by bullying them with the sword. He forced laborers from the fields to leave their crops and help Lord Richard FitzScrob construct his enormous castle. The father and son took more than their fair share of serfs’ dues and committed all sorts of foul deeds against well-meaning folks without any repercussions.

So what might happen if Edric punched him in the face? There was only one way to find out.

He turned to go and then paused again. I suppose I mustn’t land the first blow, he realized aloud. That would give the wrong impression.

Leofred held up a finger as if stricken by a brilliant idea. Get him to swing at you first.

Ah yes, said Edric. I will begin by striking him with words. But what shall I say?

Leofred shrugged helplessly.

Edric smacked the table. I’ll come up with something! He turned to go again.

Wait! called Leofred, and once more Edric halted. I’d like to dance with a girl first.

Edric struggled to fix his swimming eyes on his friend. Can’t you do that later?

Might be harder for me to, said Leofred, if you’ve gone and punched someone.

Edric considered the truth of this. He felt sorry for the young stable-hand, keeper of his father’s horses. God had not been kind to the youth when creating his appearance. He was simply ugly, with crooked eyes and jutting teeth, and a large birthmark on one side of his face. Leofred’s resolution to dance with a willing maiden was much more outlandish than Edric’s desire to punch someone. He didn’t want to say as much to his friend, but he also didn’t want to wait to punch Osbern until Leofred found a dancing partner. He could be waiting forever.

The Anglo-Saxon lord sighed. Which one would you like to dance with?

Leofred’s eyes brightened with hope. That one! Naturally, he picked the most beautiful maiden in the room. Her dress hung low and tight to outline the swell of her breasts, and her hair fell in gorgeous brown waves on either side of them, like a frame. Edric scratched uncertainly at his red curls.

Should I go and ask her? Leofred started to stand up.

Ah, no, no, no. Edric put a hand on the stable-boy’s chest and guided him firmly back down. I’ve a better idea. I’ll go over and talk to her first. We’ll make her think it’s her own idea to dance with you, you see. What do you say?

Splendid!

Edric forced his mouth to grin until he turned the other way, at which point it fell back into a frown. He glanced longingly at Osbern’s prancing figure. How much better Osbern’s face would look with a slightly crooked nose. But he pushed that thought aside, and made his way over to the gorgeous maiden’s table.

As they fell on him, her brown eyes twinkled with that perfect combination of innocence and knowing.

Ah, he said. My lady. What is your name?

Gwendolyn.

So she was also Welsh, then. At least she was not Norman. He tried to bow graciously to her, though in his tipsy state, he bowed much lower than he intended. You’re so very beautiful, Gwendolyn. He looked up at her through his lashes.

She struggled not to giggle. And you’re … cute.

Edric frowned. Girls often called him cute, and he grew tired of it. He was a bit soft around the edges, he knew, and his cheeks tended to carry a soft pink glow. But he had hoped that by the age of sixteen, the girls would stop making the same faces at him that they made at newborn puppies. I beg a favor.

Yes? She cocked a neatly arched eyebrow. How perfectly her lips puckered beneath her nose, as if permanently primed for the kissing! Must Leofred have aimed so high?

Only one way to achieve this, he decided. He reached into his purse and pulled out a silver piece.

The lady’s eyes opened wide and her smile dissolved. Her friends murmured in tones of disapproval.

Belatedly, Edric realized he had led her to the wrong assumption. A dance, a dance! he cried, his cheeks growing hot with a blush.

The ladies fell into relieved laughter, and the sharp corners of the lady’s mouth turned up again. In that case, I—

Not with me.

She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest, tiring of the games.

It’s my friend, over there, whom I wish you to dance with. He stepped aside and revealed Leofred sitting a few tables away. The fellow with the, er, lovely shadow on his cheek. He cursed himself for pointing out Leofred’s birthmark, but the stable-hand had no other feature so distinguishing.

Leofred must have met her gaze for a moment, for his eyes went wide, but then he turned aside and twiddled his fingers, as if he had not seen anything out of the ordinary.

For a long moment, Gwendolyn looked uncertain. Then she stood up, haughty and indignant, and snatched the coin from Edric’s fingers. Without another word, she stormed away, but fortunately for Edric, she stormed in the direction of Leofred.

What did I do? he said.

Her friends snickered, but offered no other wisdom.

To Edric’s relief, Gwendolyn fulfilled her part of the bargain and led Leofred to the dance floor. In a few moments the two of them were gliding along the floor in perfect sway to the melody. Perhaps Leofred possessed a poor face, but he could dance well enough, and soon even Gwendolyn seemed to enjoy herself.

Witnessing the joy on his friend’s face, Edric felt pleased. The jovial mood of the tavern lifted his spirits and filled him with cheer. Outside a cold wind blustered and even creaked against the wooden walls, but it could not pierce the warmth and coziness of the hall. The smells of bread and butter seemed permanently soaked into the walls, softening the more pungent aromas of the travelers and field-hands. This tavern betwixt Watling Street and Shrewsbury town attracted a motley crew—even some wealthier lads like Edric and Osbern who needed an escape from their halls—but most people here banded together like equals.

Remembering Osbern, Edric’s mood soured again. At last he returned to his primary purpose. He staggered past the seated folk of the tavern, who paid the red-headed youth little mind at all, and made his way to the open floor. Osbern was still hopping about like a fool and, worst of all, he had pulled over a maiden to join him. She did not look very pleased as she struggled to keep in time with his awkward movements, but her humility obliged her to keep trying.

Hey Osbern, Edric shouted. His voice was unnecessarily loud over the harp and cut through the hum of the tavern’s noise. Having a bit of trouble, are you?

Osbern slowed down, gripping the maiden’s hand stubbornly as he continued to jiggle in place. His thick eyebrows furrowed close together, casting a long shadow over his maple-brown eyes. What’s that? No, I am fine! He spoke with a thick Norman accent.

You Normans have a strange style of dancing, Edric sneered, and an even stranger way of dressing for it. Is that a woman’s dress you’re wearing?

Osbern flushed, glaring down at his own attire. Strange or not, the fabric was quiet beautiful, twined of blue and silver threads. It’s called a long tunic, you filthy burgher. And I am trying to dance in your awkward Saxon style.

Forgive me, said Edric. I did not realize. I suppose it is impossible to take the steps properly with crooked feet.

The casual chatter in the tavern faded to silence. The harp clanged as the player missed a note, though he mercifully kept playing, anyway. If he had not, a mortified quietude would have filled the room, for everyone stared in horror at the two teenaged boys. A few dance pairs away, Leofred and Gwendolyn watched anxiously.

They are not crooked, Osbern said at last, his voice wavering like the harpists’ strings. I … I only have one bad foot, and it’s nearly fixed.

Edric swayed slightly on his feet, feeling light-headed. Somewhere in his clouded consciousness, he sensed that perhaps he had chosen his insult poorly. The fact that many members of Osbern’s family had crooked feet was not just a joke; it was a reality. But it was too late to go back now. So then, he forged onward. He wished to end the talking as soon as possible and get to the punching. Is your family’s true affliction mere clumsiness?

Osbern lunged forward.

Whether Osbern’s foot was bad or not, Edric was much faster. He dodged aside so that Osbern’s knuckles grazed nothing but the edge of his red curls, sending a breeze past Edric’s cheek. Then Edric’s thrust up his own fist, knocking Osbern’s nose from below. A spray of blood went up, and Osbern’s eyes opened wide, watching this crimson fountain. The moment seemed suspended as everyone stared upon this unexpected sight. Osbern’s cry of pain followed shortly after.

The harpist ceased strumming.

Osbern at last fell over, catching himself with one hand while the other covered his nose. Edric watched in awe as dark red blood spilled through the Norman lad’s fingers.

For a moment, he stood transfixed. He had wanted to punch Osbern and he had done so. But he had not expected anything quite so gruesome. A gesture intended to injure the lord’s pride had caused a wound much more grievous.

Edric sensed men coming closer on either side of them; there were only two, but they were large strapping men, and they were armed. They were Lord Osbern’s knights.

How now, said Edric. He swung at me first—

Someone grabbed his arm and pulled. That someone was his dear friend Leofred, who possessed none of his friend’s boldness, but made up for it with common sense.

Edric was dazed enough to follow his friend’s lead, and together they stumbled out of the tavern, their leather boots bumbling across the floorboards.

The cold winter air struck Edric like a slap and he stopped just past the lip of the doorway, contemplating the frigid winter night ahead of him and the smoky tavern warmth behind him. He even turned slightly back around, but his eyes caught the glint of firelight against iron, and he realized this might be one of Osbern’s knights closing in on him. He dashed forward, his hand groping in the darkness for his friend. Leofred clutched his shoulder and led him onward, and they rushed round the tavern to their horses. Edric’s black stallion, Scima, was hard to find in the shadows. But Edric managed to find his horse and again he paused. He clung to the saddle, listening to the sounds behind him, or lack thereof. But we shouldn’t have to leave. He swung at me first! If we run away, it will only make me look guilty.

Damn it, Edric, they’re coming! Leofred’s hand lifted into the moonlight, pointing to two figures coming out of the tavern.

Edric decided it was too late to save face, so he tried to pull himself up. Unfortunately, he found it difficult with so much wine weighing down his body. His writhing efforts upset his horse, who shuffled from side to side and lashed its tail against his cheek. He cried out and struggled to hold on as the stallion spun in a circle.

Leofred reached down and smacked the horse’s haunches, and the beast at last lunged forward, carrying Edric away whether he liked it or not. A surge of strength filled his limbs and at last he straddled his mount, though he failed to anchor his weight and bobbed helplessly about.

The wind gripped his cloak and sent cold fingers down his tunic, but as his horse thundered from the tavern and across the loping fields, elation stirred in him again. Beside him, Leofred and his own horse became a blur of moonlit lines and curves. Beyond the fields, the treetops sparkled with frost and the stars of the sky twinkled. Somewhere far away, a wolf howled. How beautiful it all seemed, how magnificent, how absolutely wonderful.

He glanced back and saw that no one pursued them.

I did it by God! he cried. I punched Osbern FitzRichard!

He laughed with glee, but his companion remained strangely quiet.

*

In the morning he awoke in his own bed with an aching head and stomach. The sunlight seared his eyes and his head throbbed as he considered the events of the night before. Did he correctly remember the spray of blood flying from the Norman’s nose? He winced at this visual. The sound of his fist striking Osbern’s skull seemed to resound in his ears, booming over and over again.

Then he realized that the sound in his head came from someone knocking on his door.

His heart leapt in his chest and he scrambled out of his sheets. The sudden movement felt like a knife stab in the skull. As silently as he could, he hurried about the room getting dressed.

Edric? Edric!

He had already guessed who it was, so the booming voice through the door only confirmed it. I’m coming, I’m coming!

His father was not in the mood to wait any longer, however. He swept open the door and stepped inside.

Edric stopped in the midst of tightening his garters. He grinned through his frizzy hair and pretended as if nothing were amiss.

Godric, however, stared back with an expression of shock and, worst of all, sadness. You … forgot?

It was strange to see his father’s weathered face look so hurt. Even though of Anglo-Saxon birth, Godric appeared to be a Viking. He wore an eyepatch over one eye, or lack thereof, for it had been carved from his skull as a boy. Edric knew this had something to do with the terrible crimes of his grandfather, Eadric Streona. Godric’s good eye was as blue and crisp as the sea. His tawny hair fell past his shoulders, which were large and burly, and Edric knew that one of them sported a large, knotted scar of pink flesh.

I didn’t forget, Father. I just slept in. And I don’t feel well.

Why not? Godric hurried forward, his heavy boots creaking against the floorboards. He gripped Edric’s chin and studied his face closely. You look pale.

I’m well, thanks.

You just said you weren’t. What did you do last night?

Edric groaned and rubbed his forehead. I drank too much is all.

Did you do anything you regret?

A moment ago Edric would have said yes. But he thought again of Osbern’s head flying back and the blood spraying. He smiled at the memory. No. I regret nothing.

Godric eyed him uncertainly, but saw that it was useless to keep questioning him on the matter. You should eat something, if you can stomach it. We’ve a long day ahead of us. But he smiled, and his one eye glistened. Edric knew that his father had looked forward to this day ever since last year, just as he had the year before that.

When Edric turned twelve years old, Godric gave him a horse of his own and led him all around the lands of their estate. They visited their tenants and laborers, sharing food and drink and discussing how they were faring through the winter. These visits were very different than any other times Godric came to see them, which was often when he needed to collect something or to resolve some sort of dispute. No, on this ride Godric was more cheerful and friendly with his peasants than ever. He oversaw some twenty hides of land, which was not so many as he had once controlled, nor as many as his neighboring thegns. But he seemed content with this number, and his tenants seemed equally content with him.

Every year now after Edric’s birthday, they rode together around their estate. The peasants would expect them now and have some treats prepared, and by the end of the day Edric would feel as fat as a pig. Edric thought Godric enjoyed the chance to be social with his peasants for the mere sake of being social, but he also thought Godric took great pride in showing his accomplishments to Edric.

Edric finished dressing himself in a soft green tunic and splashed water on his face from a bowl next to the doorway. Its icy slap helped rouse him to life. Finally he followed Godric to the hall.

He ate cheese and bread dipped in honey, and the food in his belly did him good. His mother, Osgifu, came to see him off. Her wimple of silk rustled as she leaned down to kiss his cheek. She smelled of the butter she spent many of her days churning, when she was not seeing to the finances of Godric’s estate.

My dear Edric, she said, was all that drinking worth the way you feel now? She reached out to pinch his nose.

Bah! he declared, and shooed her hand away. I feel normal again, thank you.

Leave him be, said Godric, but he smiled at them both. Osgifu grabbed her husband and kissed him on the lips.

Edric rolled his eyes. Let’s be off! he declared. Fortunately, his father was all too happy to comply.

Edric’s excitement ebbed again when the glaring sunlight struck him outside, and the stench of the stables made his stomach turn, and they found Leofred struggling miserably with their horses’ saddles. Godric watched the young stable-hand uncertainly.

Leofred, he said, and the poor lad jumped, for he had always been very intimidated by the one-eyed lord. You look as bad as my son. Leofred gulped nervously. "Did you do anything foolish?"

Thinking of it, the stable-hand suddenly beamed from ear to ear. I danced with a beautiful lady.

Oh. Godric blinked with surprise, then turned to Edric. And what about you?

Edric made a sour face and squinted into the orange horizon. Look, Father, the sun is getting high.

It was a poor attempt to dodge the question, and in a better state of mind, he would have done so more smoothly. But Godric chuckled and sank onto his horse’s saddle; he slapped his horse’s flank and together they bolted from the stable, cutting the morning frost with eager hooves. Edric sent a scowl to his friend, whose cheerfulness disagreed with him, and followed his father away.

The morning began like the ones of years past. They visited the kind shepherd, the quiet swineherd, and the jovial miller. Edric’s head ached behind the eyes but he still managed to enjoy the sound of twittering birds, the sight of melting frost, and the pleasantness of a warm fire whenever they entered someone’s house from the cold. The miller’s daughter was a nuisance, for she flirted with him incessantly with her father’s encouragement. For Godric to marry off his son to one of his own tenants would be foolish and pointless, but the miller seemed to hope for it anyway, and dropped all sorts of hints, which Godric ignored rather than deflected.

As noon fell over them, Godric and Edric progressed through the shade of scattered trees, listening to the wood creak as the wind blew and watching the dappled shadows sway left and right.

You know, said Godric suddenly, you need not keep any girls a secret from me.

The remark caught Edric completely off-guard. Not only was it rare that his father struck a conversation at all, but it was even rarer that he would strike one of this nature. Girls! I don’t know what you mean, Father. There are none.

Really?

The surprise in Godric’s voice upset Edric even more. Of course not! Why would there be?

Godric shrugged. Your grandfather had a way with women. You’re a lot like him, you know.

No. I didn’t know. Edric scowled. He did not like being reminded of his grandfather, Eadric Streona. Godric did not seem ashamed at all that their ancestor had been one of the greatest traitors their country had ever seen, and who had rightfully gotten his head chopped off, as far as Edric could tell. Godric even seemed proud of his father in a way Edric would never understand. They usually avoided the topic altogether, so it was strange for Godric to bring it up so casually. They’re always making eyes at you, sighing at your every word, said Godric. Don’t you notice?

Edric just snorted. He didn’t know what to say. Girls found him cute, and he often made them giggle. He knew they weren’t swept away by him in the manner Godric seemed to imagine. But why was Godric pressing him about this? His cheeks burned red as he sensed his father staring intently at him.

You are, um ... you’re not ... Godric grumbled to himself then turned away, as if giving up.

Now Edric was curious. Am I what?

Godric’s one eye transfixed him like a lance, and he regretted not letting the subject slip away while he had the chance. You don’t like men, do you?

Men? You mean like Uncle Sigurd?

This time, Godric was the one who turned red. He grumbled and looked away again. Technically Sigurd was a free man under Godric’s lordship, but he spent a suspicious amount of time visiting a neighboring thegn, Lord Alfric. It was not supposed to be common knowledge, and most people were good at being blind to it, but anyone of a sound mind who observed Sigurd and Alfric together long enough could guess the true nature of their relationship.

Godric and Sigurd were close friends, so close that Edric liked to call Sigurd his uncle out of fondness, but even Godric preferred to feign ignorance of Sigurd’s true lifestyle.

Heavens no, said Edric. I just haven’t found the right woman yet.

"The right woman?" Godric grunted.

And who are you to disagree? Edric straightened up indignantly. You’re so in love with Mother you sometimes embarrass me. He detected the slightest smile on his father’s face, and felt the same expression on his own. Nonetheless ... that is exactly the kind of love I want, Father. God has a woman for me, and she is out there somewhere, just waiting for me to discover her.

Godric tried to push down his own smile. Your mother and I were lucky, Edric. But before her, I spent eight years married to a reluctant woman. And though I hope you would never have to suffer so much as that, you should be prepared for the possibility.

Edric bit back his retort. He knew for a certainty that he would marry the one woman God had picked for him, and none other. But he saw no reason to insist upon that with his father now. They would certainly disagree, and his head hurt too much to carry on an argument. Better to say nothing at all.

They experienced a short reprieve, listening to nothing but the crackling of twigs under their horses’ hooves; then they heard the thunder of a third set of hooves, rushing towards them much faster than any peace-loving horse and rider ought to.

Godric tensed and put his hand on his dagger. It was a knife short enough to use at the table yet long enough to be a weapon, and it was as beautiful as it was practical, for a dazzling red ruby tipped the hilt. But Edric still found it strange that his father depended on a dagger, rather than carrying around a sword or an axe. Godric was awkward with the sword, but masterful with the axe, and Edric did not understand why he didn’t keep an axe with him at all times. Whenever Edric mentioned it, Godric only said something cryptic about it sending him into the past.

Right now, Edric was more concerned about their future. But as the horse broke through the trees and revealed the intruder, the father and son released some of their tension with an exhale. It was one of Godric’s hearth companions, a large weathered fellow named Faran. Nonetheless, he seemed very unhappy.

Godric, he gasped, as out of breath as if he had been running alongside his horse. It’s Richard FitzScrob. He’s in your hall with six men.

Richard?

Edric’s stomach turned yet again. Somehow, no matter how much he had assured himself that the events of last night would not come back to haunt him, he had known this would happen. But Godric was right to be puzzled. He went out of his way to be kind and cooperative with the great Norman lord, so much so that it usually put a bitter taste in Edric’s mouth. Some would even call the two lords friends. Why? What’s wrong?

He says we killed one of his knights. Er, named ... Ralph, I think.

WHAT? Godric’s must have squeezed his horse sharply, for it pranced underneath him, churning the dirt. We? WE WHO?

This was terrible news, of course, but in a way Edric felt relieved. This had nothing to do with him.

Such relief was short-lived. In response to Godric’s question, Faran looked at Edric. Then Godric followed his example. The fury in Godric’s eye was so intense Edric felt his insides turn to mush.

It wasn’t me! he cried.

So help me God, growled his father, if you have broken my peace with Richard—

It wasn’t me, Father, I swear. I don’t even know who Ralph is!

Godric’s horse circled his like a dog around its prey. But after a moment Godric must have decided Edric had nothing useful to offer, after all, for he reined his horse away. Well, he said. Let’s go and find out.

*

Behind them, the sun sank low in the horizon, adding red hues to the interior of the building. A low fire cast flickering light onto the rush-covered floor. Strong winter winds struck the walls, making the tapestries billow and rustle. In the middle of it all sat two groups of armed men. One was Godric’s, who wore a mixture of tunics, light mail, and axes. But at the front end of the table sat Lord Richard FitzScrob and six of his own knights. The Normans were dressed as if for war, covered in chainmail and even steel plates, each of them draped with a sword at his hip.

Tension hung in the air, but it was less taut than Edric had expected. All of the men were drinking and eating, though it was not yet time for dinner. The food seemed to provide a channel for their anger, for they chewed as if to kill a small rodent between their teeth. Edric was glad that they were more preoccupied with their food than their heavy, gleaming weapons. Osgifu herself moved down the table, refilling empty cups and horns.

Godric seemed to calm somewhat as he paused near the threshold, surveying the scene with his one good eye. Edric could still hear the snarl in his voice as he said, Richard.

Hello, Godric.

Edric peeked around his father’s shoulder to see the Norman lord. He sat hunched over the table, his big chin bobbing as he chewed on a stale piece of bread. The man had a large and awkward form innately, with such unfortunate features as a long bent nose and ridiculous chin. But other parts of his body seemed even more gnarled, twisted as if to make up for his bad feet. Even though he was surely rich enough to afford better accommodations, Richard FitzScrob insisted on walking on his own two feet with as little help as possible—except for the typical occasions of riding a horse. His short hair, cropped close around his ears, only emphasized the hugeness of his skull. He was truly monstrous, thought Edric. And yet his father insisted on being friends with him.

You are … welcome at my table, of course. Godric cleared his throat, which remained hoarse despite his better efforts. But why are you here?

Richard wiped off his bulbous chin and threw the dirty cloth onto the table top. I think you know why. Or, at least, your son does.

Godric stepped aside, revealing the youth in question, and Edric flushed nearly as red as his hair.

Edric resisted the urge to cry I didn’t do it! yet again. Now faced with Richard, he felt bolder than before. He knew he was not guilty. He had nothing to fear from this brutish, evil man. This man was a bully and responsible for sprouting another bully, his son Osbern. Edric stuck up his chin, knowing that he had right on his side. I have done nothing wrong, he declared.

Richard planted his fists on the table and pushed himself up. The movement was intimidating, even though the deformed lord swayed while attempting to steady himself on inward-pointing feet. Edric shoved his his chin high while Richard glared at him through black eyebrows. "My son is lying in bed, bruised and bloodied, and one of his knights lies dead in the forest. Someone must pay, and if you are a man of good faith, Edric, you will confess to what you have done."

Edric paled. He stepped back a little, gulping.

Godric turned on him again. Though he did not hold his axe in his hands, he looked ready enough to hack Edric in two, nonetheless. What happened, Edric? The strain in his father’s voice surprised him. In it was both sadness and fear.

Edric slicked his throat with a swallow, but still found it hard to speak. I … defended myself against Osbern. Nothing more. He swung at me, you see. Ask Leofred. Ask anyone in the tavern that night. He swung at me first, so I dodged, and swung at him in return. Only my blow connected. Should I be punished for my superior aim?

Richard made a grunting sound and a flinching movement. Godric’s hearth companions all jerked at once, their hands moving towards their swords and axes. But Richard moved no further, so neither did they. Stillness resumed once more, and Edric blew a careful sigh of relief.

You killed one of my son’s knights, said Richard.

I certainly did not. I and my horse-man, Leofred, left immediately after that. We rode home and nothing else happened.

An easy lie, said the Norman. Osbern says two of his knights followed you out into the woods. It was dark and no one else saw what happened. But it’s obvious.

Godric’s breath heaved in and out; his shoulders sagged forward. He would not turn to look at his son, though now Edric wished that he would, for surely he would see the surprise and confusion on his own face. Osgifu came over and put her hands around her husband’s arm, which lifted him back up slightly. How did he die? he rasped at last. Could it have been an accident?

Stabbed through the neck, said Richard.

Edric staggered. Suddenly, this whole situation had gone from an inconvenient misunderstanding to something very, very real. A murder had truly taken place. And all of the evidence, or lack thereof, pointed to Edric as the obvious culprit.

But I did not do it. He tried to sound calm, confident. That was difficult, now that fear clutched him around the neck. Godric finally looked at him, searching for hope, but finding none, it seemed. I swear, Father. I didn’t.

Can you … prove it? said Godric.

Edric shrugged helplessly. How should I know? I wasn’t even there when it happened!

I didn’t come here to argue, snapped Richard. It is clear to me what happened, and the proper punishment will be made. I came here as a courtesy to you, Godric, so that you would be forewarned of your son’s misbehavior. We will take this to the shire court, and if Edric is found guilty—as I’m sure he will be—he must pay three hundred shillings.

Three hundred? Godric shook his head uncertainly. The weregald of a free man is only two hundred.

Perhaps more, said Richard. He was a Norman.

Edric could practically hear his father’s teeth grinding together. He pretended to like the Normans because King Edward liked the Normans. When King Edward—an Anglo-Saxon by birth—came back from Normandy and took the throne of Engla-lond, he brought several knights and Norman lords with him. King Edward himself had given Richard FitzScrob his great estate in Shrewsbury, as well as one in Herefordshire and Worcestershire. Godric tried to approve of everything King Edward did because he had fought so hard to put King Edward on the throne. But it was difficult for any Anglo-Saxon to approve of the way the Normans planted themselves on the English landscape and seized so much power. Truly enough, Richard could probably demand three hundred shillings for the life of one of his knights, and Godric could do nothing to refute him.

The discussion seemingly over, Richard turned and hobbled away from his seat. His feet were much worse than his son’s, both set of toes practically touching. He had to move somewhat sideways in order to walk at all. Once he had made it to the end of the table, his knights following slowly after, he paused there, his drooping eyes lifting somewhat.

I hope this does not cause problems between us, he said.

Nor do I, snarled Godric. His muscles were as tight as ropes, Edric could see, even though Osgifu kept her calming hands upon him. We will right this wrong, I assure you.

I hope you do, Godric Kingslayer.

Godric’s face slackened with shock. Edric felt a shiver of fear. There was no reason Richard would bring up Godric’s old nickname unless to use it as a threat. Seeing that Godric understood his meaning, he hobbled the rest of his way out of the hall.

As Edric listened to their slowly receding footsteps, he considered the possible repercussions of Richard’s parting words. He did not know the full details of Godric’s past, but he did know that Godric had killed King Harold Harefoot. Most nobles, in fact, knew this, though the proof had been discarded, for his father told him Earl Goodwin of Wessex had arranged the murder himself. As Goodwin and his sons possessed as much wealth and power in Engla-lond as King Edward himself, if not more, no one bothered to protest the incident. After Godric slit Harold’s throat, Goodwin had Harold’s head chopped off and his body thrown into the river with no ceremony at all.

Other rumors circulated about Godric Kingslayer—rumors Edric was not entirely sure were true. His father had sat him down one day to confess the fact he had killed Harold Harefoot, and he had done so with full disclosure. If he had more to confess, wouldn’t he have done so? Besides, if the rumors were to be believed, Godric had killed as many as four kings. Which was simply ridiculous.

At last, the sounds of Richard and his men galloping away faded to silence. In that moment Godric stormed to the table, picked up a goblet, and threw it against the far wall with so much force the wood creaked.

FUCK! he shouted.

Godric. Osgifu dared to touch him again, this time more firmly. Please calm down. She turned nervously to Godric’s hearth companions. You all can go, thank you. They were more than happy to obey.

Godric stepped away from her, bristling. There was no mistaking the look in his eye. A look like that led to nothing but violence. You know as well as I do we can’t spare three hundred shillings!

We’ll … we’ll ... Edric’s mother took a deep breath, but her frame was shuddering. We’ll think of something.

HEY! Edric’s clear voice ringing through the hall startled them both. They both turned to look at him with huge, gaping eyes. Edric planted his fists firmly on his hips. "You are both ignoring a very important factor of this entire problem. I am innocent."

It doesn’t matter, said Godric. We can’t let this become a large dispute. I don’t want to involve any other thegns if I can help it. Better just to pay the money and move on.

Edric shook his head in disbelief. "It doesn’t matter? He actually felt tears coming to his eyes. What do you mean it doesn’t matter?"

Of course it matters, said Osgifu, coming to her husband’s rescue. It matters to your soul, and to God, and to us. But your father is speaking in worldly and practical terms.

Yes, that’s right. It matters to God and such, Godric grumbled, but too quickly to sound believable. Osgifu threw her husband an uncertain look, and Edric recalled that she had once been a nun, before Godric carried her off and married her. But Richard is powerful. If we become a nuisance to him, he could turn this into something worse.

Worse? I don’t understand. I have nothing to hide. Do you?

That stung his father, which made it clear that yes, he did. Edric’s chest swelled with confidence. This isn’t about Richard or how powerful he is. I have truth on my side, and thus God. I never killed anyone, and so I am not going to pay a fine for it, nor suffer at all for a false accusation.

Are you sure? Godric’s blue eye swam with desperation. You were obviously drunk. Perhaps you had a scuffle in the woods you don’t remember clearly.

"Of course I’m sure! I would have remembered killing someone! Now he felt hurt and enraged. I’m not like you, Father."

The strength drained from Godric’s limbs. A terrible look came over his face and his mouth hung slightly open. What is that supposed to mean?

I don’t know. Edric trembled, and his head ached again as if a piece of ice was lodged in his brain, but he held his ground. What did he mean when he called you Kingslayer?

Godric swayed as if dizzy. Osgifu reached out and held him again. Her eyes were fierce as she turned them on her son. Your father has a dark past, Edric. You already know this.

Dark? snapped Edric. How dark? No one mourns King Harold Harefoot. Lord Goodwin protected you until the day he died. So what else are you afraid of? You think I am hiding something, Father, only because you hide so much, yourself.

Enough of this. Godric’s fingers flexed in and out of a fist. The past is the past. We can’t change any of it. We can only deal with the present. Old deeds are behind us, and we want them to stay that way.

Osgifu nodded to this, her red hair sliding softly around her shoulders. Your father has confessed his crimes to God, and he has repented of them.

How many crimes are we talking about? Edric felt like he was onto something. I know only of King Harold.

Osgifu blinked with surprise. Godric! Dismay pulled at his mother’s voice. I thought you told him everything!

Godric turned his head away, his gaze downcast.

Edric felt bad for the pain on both his parents’ faces, but he could not relent now. How many? he pressed. How many people did you—

That’s enough. Godric did not speak loudly, but his voice grated at Edric’s heart, so he shut his mouth. I’ll not discuss this anymore. We will come up with three hundred shillings, one way or another. There is nothing else to be done.

He turned and walked away, exiting up the stairs towards his own room.

Edric was not sure what came over him. He felt afraid and hurt; he felt angry and betrayed. He felt as if he was losing control, and that at any moment he might break into sobs. He ran off before it could come to that.

Edric!

The cold night air was a brief distraction from his inner torment, but soon he was in his own lodge. Leofred was already inside, as well as the dish-thegn. It was too late for Edric to hide his emotions. They saw his red face, his bulging cheeks, his quivering chin. Get out! he cried. And without question, they obeyed.

Edric fell into his cot and burst into tears.

He sobbed against the woolen blankets, detesting the wretched ache in his head and stomach. On the one hand, he wished he had never punched Osbern FitzRichard in the nose. On the other, he would do it again, and again, and again if he had the chance. He wanted to do it now more than ever. He did not deserve all this trouble for one misdeed, if it could even be called such. How could it be called a misdeed when Osbern so clearly deserved it?

Then he thought of his father, and his anger surged yet further. What Godric might or might not have done in his past was hardly the issue. Edric knew that his father did his best for his family and tenants, and tried—at least in the present—to be a good man. It bothered Edric more that Godric had so little concern for his son’s innocence. Did he not see that Edric was the victim here? Did he not care?

Edric.

His mother’s voice was gentle, reassuring. He had not heard her come in, but her presence did not startle or bother him. Her hands were healing as they fell softly upon his back.

He sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve as he turned his head aside. I didn’t do it, he said through his tears.

I believe you.

"And Father? He doesn’t believe me, does he?"

I don’t know, Edric. She rubbed him between the shoulders. It’s not your fault what he thinks or doesn’t think. He is afraid, you see, and his fear blinds him. Fear can blind all of us.

Afraid of what?

Afraid … afraid that you are too much like him. Or at least like he used to be.

Edric stopped crying a moment, surprised by this. What was he like?

Osgifu moved up her hand so she could run it through his red curls. He was strong, powered by anger, and capable of many terrible things. She laughed sadly. I suppose he still is. Her fingers tightened around a knot of Edric’s hair. But in the past, he would act upon such rage without hesitation. For a long time, I do not think he felt any remorse or guilt. I do not think he cared about anything so much as achieving his revenge.

Edric snorted. Revenge for what? For Eadric Streona? The name stung his tongue.

For your grandfather, yes. But also for himself. She sighed. How can one explain it? I suppose he was filled with blood-lust, and it would not be quenched until he forgave Canute for all that had happened.

The mention of the Viking king struck Edric with surprise. He killed Canute the Great?

Hush. Osgifu’s hand withdrew from his head.

Edric sat up. He made a futile effort at straightening his messy hair and wiping his tears from his cheeks. I want to know. Tell me the truth. Did he kill four kings?

Four? His mother’s face crinkled, and he noticed the permanent lines forming around her eyes. Where do you get that number?

I’ve heard people whisper it. But I do not think it means much, he added quickly, seeing her worry lines multiply. Even people who said such a thing did not seem to believe it, so I paid them little mind. I suppose it simply makes a good story.

Well ... She was still frowning. There were three kings who died at Godric’s hand. He poisoned Canute. He killed Harold Harefoot. But the first king he killed was Edmund Ironside.

Edric went pale. He helped Eadric Streona kill King Edmund? He should have guessed as much, but he didn’t want to believe it. The stories left no room for doubt that Edmund had been a great man and honorable warrior. If Godric had defeated him in battle, that would have been one thing; but instead, he and Eadric had used a wicked lock-bow to slay the noble king while he sat in the latrine.

She nodded sadly. Those were the kings he killed.

Something in her voice made Edric lift an eyebrow. And who else did he kill?

Her lips pinched with irritation. If you want to know the full extent of his crimes, you should try asking him again, when he is not so upset. She sighed. I thought he told you everything already. He led me to believe he had. But I suppose he is still ashamed, and in a sense, that is a good thing.

Edric watched his mother with fascination. There was no doubt that Osgifu and Godric loved each other very much, but sometimes he could see the wounds of their past still aching within them. How had such a gentle and cheerful woman fallen in love with a man like that? It was a strange and incredible phenomenon. It made him wonder what sort of woman would fall in love with him, when the time came.

Osgifu could see that his mind was drifting. She lifted her hand and rested it against his cheek. Anyway, you have none of the demons within you that Godric once had, and I am very grateful, Edric. You are everything I taught you to be, and I am so very proud of you, every single day.

Edric offered a lop-sided smile. Even today?

Of course. Except for the fact you punched Osbern FitzRichard in the first place. As she pulled her hand away, she pinched his nose tight.

Ouch!

Pink suffused her cheeks as she resisted a laugh. I can understand why you did, of course. That boy is the spawn of Satan.

They both enjoyed a brief laugh, but the mood became grave again quickly, and a heavy silence resumed.

I am not going to take this without fighting back, said Edric.

I appreciate your desire for justice, Edric. But I think your father is right about this. Defending yourself will not make things better. It will only make them worse.

Where on earth would we get three hundred shillings?

Osgifu considered this. It will be difficult, but I think it is possible. We have close connections to two of the richest thegns in Shropshire, Lord Alfric and Lord Aethelgar.

They would help us? Edric could see her point. They could probably get Lord Alfric to help them through Uncle Sigurd’s persuasion. And as it so happened, both Alfric and Aethelgar were relatives of Eadric Streona (Aethelgar was married to Ethelfleda, Eadric Streona’s daughter), so they were all related by blood. Aethelgar was Eadric’s grandson and Alfric was his nephew. Despite that, Edric did not like the thought of asking for their help, and he knew Godric would not, either.

I think they would, yes. Did you get to see Sigurd today?

No, we didn’t get that far. It saddened Edric to think back on this morning, and how very long ago it now felt. His father had been happy and all had seemed well. Now this shadow hung over them, large enough to cover many days ahead of them.

Never mind. We’ll see Sigurd soon, then. Osgifu leaned over and kissed his cheek. Rest now, my dear, and pray. With humility and God’s help, all will be well.

Good night, Mother.

As always, his mother had successfully lifted his spirits, and his head felt lighter as he put it back on his pillow. It relieved him that his mother was confident that they could come up with three hundred shillings without becoming destitute.

Still, he did not think it would come to that. He would prove to them all that he was innocent, and that Osbern FitzRichard was a lying bag of scum—whether they wanted him to or not.

Chapter 2

1059 A.D.

As often as Osbern made fun of the Anglo-Saxon taverns, the truth was that he enjoyed drinking and reveling in them every chance he got. The people had poor etiquette and awful manners: they would chew with their mouths open, spill ale down their chins as they drank, and talk about a woman’s breasts right in front of her. The way the Saxons danced was a perfect example of their vulgarity. They had little technique and tended to make up their own steps as they went along, simply flowing with the music. But this form of wild expression fascinated Osbern, and though he still detested the crudeness of it all, sometimes he appreciated the excuse to loosen up a bit, himself. It made him feel primitive and barbaric, but at the same time, it was a little fun.

Outside of the taverns, people treated him very differently. They feared him—as well they ought to—but they also resented him. His father’s castle now loomed over the landscape, shadowing their little wooden lodges, belittling their simple stone churches and even the Roman ruins still sprucing some of their cities. The sight no doubt filled them with awe, jealousy, and a painful sense of their own inferiority. It was natural for them to direct their bitterness towards him, because he and his father had led them to recognize their own inadequacy. Most of the time Osbern was able to accept and even embrace this reaction from the peasantry. But something changed when he came to a place like this, and mingled among them as if he were one of them. They grew bolder, as if they were his equals.

And every once in awhile, he welcomed such a reception.

Early in the evening, while a faint yellow light still glowed through the doorway, Osbern and two of his knights, Ralph and Geoffrey, tried to get drunk. Osbern was not new to the practice, being almost twenty, but he felt particularly resilient. He found that it took a great many drinks to achieve the proper effect. He decided his stamina served a good purpose, for as pleasant as it could be to feel light-headed with spirits, he also knew the importance of saving face in front of his men. An occasional drink with him in a tavern was all well and good, but they were there to serve and protect him, not to be his friends. And he found that sometimes it was difficult for them to remember that, being exposed as they were to the Anglo-Saxon hearth companions, who had a less defined relationship with their lords. Ralph, in particular, seemed to have trouble showing proper respect. Sometimes it seemed as if he wanted to be an Anglo-Saxon, himself; he had already grown a grizzly beard and not trimmed his hair for quite awhile. He spoke English all the time, even when they were in the sanctity of Richard’s castle.

Geoffrey, on the other hand, was an older and very disciplined knight, with light brown eyes—almost gold—dark eyebrows, and scraggly yellow hair. He rarely spoke at all, much to Osbern’s liking. He had his faults, of course. Beneath his quiet exterior, the man struggled with demons. While a knight should enjoy fighting somewhat, Geoffrey seemed to take excessive pleasure in the activity. The satisfaction did not come from delivering a killing blow. It came from watching the pain in someone’s eyes as his blade dove into flesh. In any case, that was between Geoffrey and God; Osbern only cared that Geoffrey serve him well—which he did.

My lord, said Ralph after a gulp of ale. You should try dancing with one of these pretty wenches!

I am not so sure about that, grumbled Osbern. They look like fools. The dancers also looked like they were having the time of their lives. In truth, Osbern worried most about looking like a fool, himself. He could do some basic steps for Norman dances, but they had taken a great deal of practice for him to learn, given his one slightly crooked foot. When Osbern was a baby, his father had tried to fix the foot by setting it with braces and that had helped a great deal, but he still had lesser balance than most men.

Oh, come on, Osbern, said Ralph. It would do you good to have some fun.

Osbern blinked at the knight in shock. Perhaps Ralph had managed to get somewhat tipsy, but that was no excuse to talk to him in this way. He had not called him Suzerain or even lord, but addressed him by his first name. And worse, his words were in effect telling Osbern what to do. He seemed to believe he was suddenly Osbern’s friend, even though Osbern had tried never to give that indication.

It was true that Osbern was unusually tense tonight. In a couple of days, he would be visited by a Welsh lord to discuss his possible future with Nesta, the princess of Wales. It was an incredible match for him, one he was lucky for a chance at. Nesta’s father, Gruffydd ap Llywelyn, was King of all Wales. Richard had arranged the union through his powerful connections and, Osbern suspected, by offering a great deal of money.

He should have ignored Ralph’s advice and flagrant disrespect. Nonetheless, he felt a spark of rebellion within him, and he slammed down his unfinished goblet. He was not sure exactly whom he was rebelling against, nor to what effect. It was not as if he would teach Ralph a lesson by following his advice. But for some reason he lifted his smooth chin high and declared, By the cross, so I will.

By now the light outside was waning, the harpist was strumming and the piper piping, and a few pretty ladies were among the people who had straggled in. He already knew which lady he wanted to dance with. He had spotted her when she first came in. She had a clean appearance and noble posture despite her cheap clothes, and he appreciated that in a woman.

He strode up to her table quickly and calmly, hoping the slight sway of his body to the side as he advanced would go undetected. He walked with such purpose that she noticed him approaching long before he stopped next to her. It pleased him that she did not see his limp, but stared directly into his eyes all the while. He wondered if he looked handsome to her. He was never able to tell when he studied his own reflection. He thought he had a strong nose and chin like his father. But his father was not especially handsome.

Good evening, he said. Would you dance with me, lady?

She blinked at him.

He didn’t understand. Everyone at the table stared at him, not saying a word, not even making an expression. He cleared his throat and tried again. I think you should dance with me.

She started to lift her hand, so he reached down and gripped it firmly.

Very good.

Trying not to scowl, he led her to the empty floor, but she dragged like a dead weight at his fingers. He noticed his men watching him from their own bench, not making any expression, either. What was the matter with everyone?

Once he was in the right place, he simply started dancing.

At first it felt awkward and strange. But as he kept moving, it felt better and better. Perhaps it was nice not to be constrained by the Norman techniques. It was strangely freeing to step however he pleased, and the less he thought about it, the easier it became. He thought perhaps he had managed to get more intoxicated than he’d first suspected. In the end, it was the maiden who looked foolish, for she just moved here and there, staring at him with a dazed expression all the while.

Hey Osbern, someone shouted.

Osbern looked over, still moving at first, and for a moment he even wore a smile on his face. Then he saw who it was, and his heart fell within him. Edric.

The Norman and Saxon had known each other ever since Osbern moved to Engla-lond as a young boy with his father. He was as rambunctious and rebellious as his red hair and blazing blue eyes suggested. They had played together a few times, and for awhile Osbern thought they might even become friends. But Edric would always glare at the large silver stones being stacked upon his father’s castle, and he resented any manner of authority Osbern and his father tried to enact over their serfs. This only made Osbern angrier, and he tried when he could to remind Edric of his place. This only made Edric more defiant.

Osbern still tried when he could to be