Eadric the Grasper

By Jayden Woods

History looks back on Eadric Streona as one of the most villainous men of his time. The BBC History Magazine elected him as the worst Englishman of the 11th century, and many also blame him for the victory of the Vikings over England. Streona means "the grasper," and such was Eadric's character: he clutched for power and money wherever he could. But what most historians fail to consider is that Eadric Streona's primary goal was peace and stability for England.

Without contradicting the known facts, "Eadric the Grasper" presents another conception of this historical figure: he is suave, charming, intelligent, and values peace above all things. If he must put a Viking king on the throne to gain a pleasurable life for himself and his true love, so be it. Meanwhile, a ruthless vigilante called "the Golden Cross" will do anything necessary to keep the Vikings from the throne. Eadric must pit his wits and sword against the crafty masked figure, but doing so traps him in a dark web of lies and deception. When at last he uncovers the rebel's identity, his entire world will fall apart, and he must face a terrible choice. Can the selfish Eadric Streona sacrifice his own welfare for the sake of another's?

Fans of Bernard Cornwell, Georgette Heyer, Ken Follet ("Pillars of the Earth"), and Baroness Orczy ("The Scarlet Pimpernel") will especially enjoy the style of this swashbuckling historical fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jayden Woods
• Release date: Jan 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458167729

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

EADRIC THE GRASPER

Jayden Woods

Copyright 2009 Jayden Woods

Edited by Malcolm Pierce

Cover Art by Del Melchionda

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SONS OF MERCIA VOL.1

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NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

This book is a work of fiction inspired by real events. It is a creative interpretation of what might have and could have been, not necessarily what was. The primary sources of history were The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles written in the 11th century, The Chronicle of Florence of Worcester, and William of Malmesbury’s Chronicles of the Kings of England written in the 12th century. For additional sources, see Author’s Note.

2011 Revision

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My greatest thanks goes to John, who was always there to encourage and advise me when my motivation ran empty. Thank you to Dan for being the first person to read the completed manuscript from start to finish and mark its typos along the way. Thank you to Del Melchionda for such a beautiful jacket illustration. Thank you to Carol for plugging me into a great network of people locally and beyond, and for keeping my spirits up with a weekly home-cooked meal. Thank you to everyone who believed in me and sent me kind words in my darkest hours. Thank you to Mom and Papa for always believing in my dreams. Thank you to Bettina for being the best of friends. Thank you to Cathie Beck for the tips and inspiration to take this step.

Copyright 2009 © by Jenny Gibbons / Jayden Woods

Cover art by Del Melchionda

Table of Contents

Part 1: STREONA

(Chapter 1) Winter 1002 A.D.

(Chapter 2) Winter, 1002 A.D.

(Chapter 3) Summer 1006 A.D.

(Chapter 4) Summer 1006 A.D.

(Chapter 5) Fall 1006 A.D.

(Chapter 6) Winter 1006 A.D.

Part 2: THE GOLDEN CROSS

(Chapter 7) Spring 1007 A.D.

(Chapter 8) 1007 - 1008 A.D.

(Chapter 9) 1009 A.D.

(Chapter 10) 1010 - 1012 A.D.

(Chapter 11) 1013 - 1014 A.D.

Part 3: IRONSIDE

(Chapter 12) 1014 - 1015 A.D.

(Chapter 13) 1015 A.D.

(Chapter 14) Winter 1015 - 1016 A.D.

(Chapter 15) Summer - Fall 1016 A.D.

(Chapter 16) Winter 1016 A.D.

Epilogue: Winter 1017 A.D.

Part 1:

STREONA

"[Eadric] was a man of humble birth, but his tongue procured him both riches and high station; he was of a ready wit, of persuasive eloquence, and surpassed all his contemporaries in malice, perfidy, pride, and cruelty."

–The Chronicle of Florence of Worcester,

Entry for Year 1007 A.D.

1

Winter 1002 A.D.

Eadric refused to let the leak in his wine cask ruin his fine evening. The young servant still needed to ride a mile from the bustling city of Lundenburg back to Lord Bram’s manor, and without a doubt the cask would be very light by the journey’s end. Lord Wulfric and his men had already been intoxicated when they sent him to fetch more, so perhaps they would not notice. He now had a rare opportunity to roam the thriving streets of Engla-lond’s greatest city without the supervision of a thegn or lord and he was determined to make the most of it.

The sun had not yet fallen below the River Thames, so it bathed the old Roman city in glowing hues of gold. The great stone walls around the burg gleamed like heavenly armor. The River Thames sparkled beneath the Lunden bridge as a breeze raked the surface. The shapes of traders and ships in the port flitted across the light as dancing silhouettes. Even the filthiest of street corners, filled with tethered animals or begging whores, appeared bright and beautiful.

The firm structure protecting the city, however, was only so beautiful as the chaos within it. The roads and riverside teemed with the busy lords and churls of the land. Exotic and free-spirited people from across the sea shouted from booths and wagons. The Anglo-Saxon residents offered tallow, wool, and pig meat in order to obtain gloves, vinegar, wine, pepper, fowl, and other precious goods from the foreigners. At least a dozen pungent smells competed in the smoky air at any given moment: baskets of bread and clumps of manure, perfumes of the rich and the sweat of the poor, flowers in the marketplace and latrines in the alleys.

At a glance, one would never guess that only eight years ago, the Viking king of Denmark—Sweyn Forkbeard—nearly burned this city to the ground. The tireless spirit of the Lundenburg people, seemingly undaunted by the warfare in their past, amazed Eadric.

Despite all of Eadric’s gawking and marveling, he might still have saved himself a thrashing and returned to his lord with a decent amount of wine had he not come across a young man crying.

The man was almost a boy, some thirteen years of age, but he seemed to Eadric like a lucky lad who had nothing to cry about. He wore fine red linens and a long black cloak to protect him from the grip of winter air. A sparkling brooch fastened his cloak to his shoulder and embroidery weighed down his cuffs. Perhaps due to the tears running down his face, his skin was clean and free of mud; even his boots looked like they had never seen a hard day’s work.

What’s this? called Eadric. What ails you, my friend?

The boy looked up, his dark brown graze fragmented with tears, his black hair standing up where he had pulled upon it. Eadric wondered how he must look to the other fellow. A poor churl, dressed in scratchy wools and loose-fitting trousers, he nonetheless prided himself on his appearance. Eadric’s hair was a thick mass of golden curls that his lord let him grow long so it would not form a ridiculous halo about his face. His eyes, large and blue, tended to glitter with good humor no matter his circumstance.

Who are you? The boy spoke with a wary tone.

Eadric of Staffordshire. Now tell me who has wronged you. A lord? A churchman? Or perhaps a woman? I can help you with any of the above—especially the last.

The youth frowned, unable to place Eadric’s name, but deciding it did not matter. Can you help me with a father?

I know little of fathers, Eadric confessed. But what has he done to you?

He has done nothing to me. The boy wiped his leaking nose. But everyone else complains of him. They call him foolish and incompetent. He fixed Eadric with a cruel glare. I bet you don’t even know what that word means.

It means he cannot do his job. Unlike most boys, Eadric had been tutored by a historian. He even knew how to read. If you ask me, said Eadric, a job is a job. What matters is whether he can protect himself, and his family. A job is only a means to an end. Do you follow?

The youth scrunched up his face as he tried to understand. I … think so.

Clearly he did not, but Eadric smiled. Cheer up, my friend. The purpose of a job is to buy bread and live a comfortable life. Therefore its purpose is to make one happy, and so it must be useless, if it makes no one happy. The boy still seemed confused, so Eadric contrived another way to explain it. Consider the king. He is a king! And yet do you hear how people ridicule him?

The youth blinked his big, curious eyes.

When the king asks people to pay money to the Vikings, and thus delay the next attack, everyone shouts and complains. But the king is only doing what he must: protecting himself and his own. In any case, he wants his people to be happy, and if they stopped complaining, perhaps they would be.

They say he should fight more. The boy sniffled. But he won’t.

Eadric was a bit surprised by this pointed response, but tried to keep up. And do you blame him? Why, if I was the king, I wouldn’t fight much at all, I think.

Then you’re a coward! The rich kid’s eyes gleamed dangerously.

Eadric crossed his arms over his chest. Am I? Think about it, friend. Our Saxon kings tried to fight the Vikings for over two hundred years, and it hasn’t accomplished a thing.

Then what would you do?

Eadric was not sure when this casual conversation had become so political, but he decided he did not mind. It made for an interesting evening. His grin stretched from ear to ear. Whatever method was fastest and easiest, I suppose: a method that certainly would not be found on the battlefield.

Like what?

I’ve a few ideas. The servant shrugged. But what use are they to you?

The boy was quiet a long time. Eadric shook his head at him.

Don’t think on it so much. The king does what he must to protect and feed us; I am sure your father is the same. And if he isn’t … then to hell with him!

The boy fixed Eadric with an awe-like stare. Then he got up and ran off, his mantle streaming behind him.

As Eadric watched him go, he feared that he had wasted his time and a great deal of leaking wine for nothing. He turned away with a scoff. Then he saw someone else gaping at him.

What? he snapped.

Didn’t you realize? said the eavesdropper. That boy was Aetheling Edmund. The king’s own son!

Eadric gulped, but this only seemed to push a knot into his stomach. He struggled to recall his own words, uncertain of whether he had just complimented the king or damned him to hell. Whatever the case, he thought it wise to hurry back to his lord as soon as possible.

*

When Eadric returned to Lord Bram’s dining hall, the lords sat slumped over the table, fast asleep. The harpist, relieved of his duties, played with the dogs by the fire. The lords’ chosen maids sat in the rushes, passing around a horn of ale and whispering to one another. Eadric might have walked away, hoping that his master would forget the errand he’d assigned, but his eye caught that of a beautiful brunette. She smiled at him, and he winked. He strode towards her. But when he paused to set down the cask of wine, the dogs decided to bark and bound towards him, wagging their shaggy tails.

Lord Wulfric and Lord Bram both awoke.

Wulfric was a short but burly man, his skin flourishing with thick knotted hair. He made his fortune caring for pigs in Mercia, and some of this occupation showed in his demeanor. He let his beard grow freely about his cheeks to obscure a large birthmark, though he failed to hide it completely. People called him Wulfric Spot because of this mark on his face.

One might not guess it by looking at him, but Wulfric was one of the king’s witan, or wise men. This meant that every year—such as now—Wulfric rode south from Staffordshire to visit the king in either Winchester or Lundenburg and counsel him on matters of state. This was the only reason that Wulfric and his men, including Eadric, were currently guests under Bram’s roof, rather than laboring at home in Mercia.

Ah, Eadric! grumbled his master. His lids sagged with the weight of his intoxication. You got more wine?

Eadric feigned a pouting smile as he lifted the cask, shaking it to demonstrate its emptiness. Don’t you remember, my lord? You already drank a good deal of it.

Ah, said Wulfric, content to go back to sleep.

Bram, however, sat up sharply. The lord of the manor possessed Danish blood, which showed itself in his fierce blue eyes and pale white hair. His drunkenness, clearly, put him in no mood to be crossed. The boy’s lying, he said.

What? Wulfric blinked as he lifted his head again.

Lying! Bram stood up, his stool falling out from under him. Everyone in the hall grew quiet, even the playful dogs.

Here is the cask of wine, said Eadric. He tried to sound confident, but fear tightened his throat. Do you think I poured it out?

Perhaps, snarled Bram. Or drank it yourself! Then he strode around the table, kicking aside dinner scraps as he made his way towards Eadric.

What are you doing? said Wulfric.

Teaching your slave a lesson.

Eadric cried out as Bram grabbed his ear.

He’s not a slave, the lord of Staffordshire protested. The boy has served me for some time. I know the lad’s mother.

So you’ll let him make a fool of you?

Wulfric was silent.

You let him grow his hair long, like a free man? Eadric winced as Bram grabbed a handful of his golden mane. Though it hurt him fiercely, he glared up at the Dane, gritting his teeth with fury. Bram had lived in Engla-lond all of his life, yet he still seemed to exemplify the Danish culture: proud, ruthless, and unforgiving.

His own lord remained quiet, and Bram took his silence as forfeiture. He dragged Eadric outside by the hair. He ordered the servant to bare his back and turn the other way.

Eadric glared up at the stars, his breath heaving out of him in white clouds with each strike of the switch. Resentment filled his blood like poison. He hated that so many lords seemed angry and unhappy, no matter how much food and comfort their great wealth provided them. Even more he hated the Danes, who took and took and took, and yet still wanted more. They were so hungry for power and violence that this meager landowner would take the chance to beat another man’s servant.

That night, he tossed and turned in bed, unable to fall asleep. The conclusion of his evening now cast a dark shadow on the wonder of meeting Aetheling Edmund. Eadric possessed the wit and good nature to counsel an heir of the English throne. His mother had sacrificed the comforts of her own life to provide Eadric with the tutelage of a historian. The Danish landowner probably knew not how to read or write. All this, yet he could whip Eadric for delivering a light cask of wine.

He channeled his anger into his labor the next day. Bram sent him to the barn to shovel horse manure from the stables. Filth clung to his scratchy woolen tunic and tarnished his rosy cheeks. Hay stuck to the tangles of his curly blond hair. His hands blistered where they held the shovel and cracked across his dry knuckles. He gritted his teeth and hummed to distract himself from the grisly work.

And in such a state did Manton, one of the king’s own hearth companions, find him.

I’m looking for the men of Staffordshire.

Eadric jumped with surprise. When he turned his bright blue eyes on the intruder, they widened yet further. He had glimpsed many rich men during his trips to Lundenburg, but to see one now was more startling. The nobleman’s horse was round with muscle and a healthy layer of fat. Soft gloves warmed the man’s hands and steel gauntlets protected his wrists. His tunic was made of soft linens, underneath which he wore a glistening coat of mail and further padding.

Who’s looking? said Eadric, still feeling testy. Stable work always put him in a sour mood, even when his back was not half-flayed. He much preferred tending to pigs, which was his usual task at home with Lord Wulfric. He and Wulfric were not at home, however; and as much as Eadric loved the excitement of Lundenburg, he ached suddenly for the peaceful slopes of Mercia.

The noble visitor frowned back at Eadric. I am here by order of the king.

Ah, that’s wonderful! Eadric masked his sarcasm behind a soft smile. He was very good at faking sincerity when he wished. Well, you’ve come to the right place—the men of Staffordshire are staying here.

The stranger’s eyes narrowed on the peasant. He probably expected Eadric to go in and fetch his master. But Eadric refused to budge unless directly commanded to do so.

Do you have any other questions? said Eadric, maintaining his sunny grin.

The man who owns this land—Bram—he is a Dane, is he not?

By blood, yes, said Eadric. But he has lived in Engla-lond all his life, I believe, as did his father before him.

The king’s messenger grunted and spat into the hay, as if to curse any land owned by a Northman. This is a waste of time.

Eadric agreed wholeheartedly. The sooner this man went away, the sooner he could finish his chores and resume flirting with the curvy brunette in the kitchen.

A large shadow appeared suddenly in the barn doorway. Eadric recognized it as Wulfric’s. What is going on here?

Rather than be daunted by Wulfric’s appearance, the royal servant put a hand on the hilt of his sword. Wulfric of Mercia, said the man through gritted teeth. Is there a man from your shire named Eadric?

Eadric dropped his shovel with a thud.

Eadric? Wulfric merely sounded confused. That is him, there. He thrust his grubby finger through the sunshine.

The royal man gawked at Eadric. He tried to laugh, but only made a funny sound in his throat. That cannot be him! Isn’t there another?

No, not with me, Manton.

Manton’s throat bobbed with a gulp. His horse stomped beneath him. I see, he said. There has been some sort of mistake. Edmund said he spoke to a nobleman.

Eadric struggled to hear his own thoughts through the roar of blood in his ears. But somewhere in his gut, he had already known that his chance meeting with the aetheling was far from resolved.

The hearth companion studied Eadric carefully. Did you deceive Aetheling Edmund?

Not on purpose. Though upset, Eadric repressed a smile. It stoked his vanity that the prince had mistaken him for nobility, even in his poor attire. "I am sorry if he made the wrong assumption. I did not even know who he was when I spoke to him, to tell you the truth."

What the hell is this about? cried Wulfric.

Manton’s horse whinnied with distress. This man of yours gave Edmund advice on the war under the guise of the king’s witan.

I did not—!

Silence, churl. The soldier flashed his teeth. I am repeating Lord Edmund’s own statement. Would you challenge the words of the prince?

Eadric bit his tongue.

So ... said Wulfric helplessly. Edmund liked Eadric’s advice?

He took it to the king, who must have liked it, or feared it, I know not. He wanted to speak to this so-called Eadric of Staffordshire himself. But I am sure he will change his mind when he hears that the words came from a common churl. He lifted his lash above his horse’s flank.

Now wait a moment. Wulfric planted his feet and crossed his big arms over his chest. As you know, I am a member of the king’s witan.

Yes, snarled Manton. Your point?

I advise the king all the time; and I advise him now to hear what Eadric has to say.

Eadric felt the blood drain from his face.

This is madness! cried the royal soldier.

But Wulfric stood firm, and Manton grew impatient.

Do this at your own risk, Wulfric—I care not! He spun his horse back to Eadric. Come along then, boy.

How now? said Eadric. His eyes glittered with mischief. If I’m to see the king, shouldn’t I make myself presentable?

The king’s man groaned with exasperation, then nudged his horse out the barn. Be quick about it! he barked over his shoulder.

In silence, Eadric walked with Wulfric to the lord’s lodge. He could not understand why Wulfric had spoken as he did. Wulfric had always been kind to Eadric, truly enough; sometimes they would share ale together, or play games, or comment on the thegn’s choice of maids. Wulfric often entrusted Eadric with some of his most important, though annoying, tasks—particularly if they involved talking. The thegn found that when he used Eadric to send bad news, the recipient was not so drastically upset as when he sent someone else. When Wulfric needed to take something from his tenants but was not ready to use the sword, he sent Eadric to convince them they should cooperate. Eadric almost always succeeded.

But now, Wulfric was sending Eadric off to see the king. The servant could hardly make sense of it.

In the lord’s lodge, Eadric rinsed his face with icy cold water. He took Wulfric’s comb and ran it through the thick blond curls of his mane, though after a few harsh snags, he deemed it better to leave the knots alone. Then Wulfric allowed him to pick out some clothing. Eadric’s decision was easy: the soft red linens, the long black cloak that signified wealth and high station, the gilded brooch which clasped it against his shoulder, and some garters to tighten his trousers to his legs.

When he was done, Wulfric looked him over. He shook his shaggy head and feigned a frown, but Eadric detected the pale sparkle of pride in his master’s eyes.

Lord have mercy, said Wulfric. I knew your wits would get you in trouble one of these days, but I did not expect it to be so soon.

I don’t understand.

Wulfric grunted and scratched his bearded cheek. I don’t know what’s more strange: that a king’s messenger comes calling for a common servant, or that I am not more surprised. There has always been something about you, Eadric. Something … well, strange. Don’t you see, Eadric? You have a silver tongue.

The two of them were silent a long while. Eadric’s chest tightened with the weight of the conversation ahead of him.

Be careful what you say to him, Eadric. I don’t know what you said to Edmund, but whatever it was, apparently the king was desperate to hear it. King Ethelred’s a fragile man. He is desperate for good advice, but he doesn’t like a word of what his wise men suggest to him. I think we try so hard to please him that we don’t think enough about what he really needs to hear. You’re different from most men, Eadric. You’re more confident than the rest of those fools. Either your confidence is going to win over the king’s heart or land you in a pile of cow shit. I look forward to seeing what happens, eh?

He chuckled and patted Eadric roughly on the back, though this drew a cry of pain from the servant’s throat.

He picked a comely steed from Bram’s stables and wished his servant good luck. Manton only glowered at the servant as they rejoined outside. Despite himself, Eadric shivered with fear. No doubt Wulfric was right about one thing: this day marked a turning point in Eadric’s life. Whether it led towards glory or desecration had yet to be seen.

*

This time, the sensational splendor of Lundenburg blurred under the whirlwind of thoughts in Eadric’s mind. He rode in a haze towards the palace within the walls. Even the beautiful maidens failed to divert Eadric’s attention. Instead, he found himself studying the earthworks, ramparts, and towers. He thought of the war this place had seen, and what it might see in the future. Eadric knew little of such matters, but he needed to refresh his memory, and quickly.

Eadric recalled that it was only eight years ago when Sweyn Forkbeard sailed up the river with ninety-four of his demon-prow ships to besiege Lundenburg. According to the stories, the Danish pirates had tried to set the cities on fire, but the Anglo-Saxons fought back at them with all their might and forced them to flee. Furious, Sweyn marched around the countryside raiding helpless homes and churches, capturing men and women for slaves, then killing or destroying whatever he could not take with him. The Vikings had pillaged and razed the shores of Engla-lond for over two hundred years. Yet through it all, the Anglo-Saxons held on just strongly enough to retain the war-torn country.

Living in northwestern Mercia with Thegn Wulfric, Eadric saw less bloodshed than most, but not so little that he was impervious to his country’s sorrows. Whenever the Vikings struck Engla-lond, the king summoned the fyrd to fight for him. Traditionally, the fyrd consisted of his thegns and lords, trained and ready for battle. These days the common folk had little choice but to serve as well. Recently, the king had even requested extra taxes from his people so that he could pay the raiders to stay away. King Ethelred’s desperate measures did not seem to matter. The Vikings returned, year after year after year. Battles raged, and the witenagemot gathered, and the king followed their advice—or prayed for days on end. But nothing changed.

Eadric had said as much to Edmund. He had also said that the solution to the war could not be found on the battlefield. How had the king interpreted this?

His thoughts returned to the present when he rode into the shadow of the palace. The stone structure was unlike anything he had ever seen, with tall curving archways and thick columns of Kentish rock. Some of it had dilapidated since the Romans built it, like the Lunden bridge itself, and wattle-and-daub had been used to patch up the damage. If Eadric remembered correctly, the palace had not been used between the time of its construction and the reign of Alfred the Great, who chose it for his headquarters. Lines of soldiers wrapped the royal structure, holding tall spears and brightly-painted shields. Their peaked helmets and chainmail sparkled brilliantly in the sunlight, and for a moment Eadric felt blinded.

Eadric’s guide led him to the royal stables to tether his horse, then at last into the great halls of the royal residence. The stone confines were certainly intricate, but they possessed a solemnity and quietude much different than the streets beyond. Elaborate tapestries covered the openings between rooms or over windows, fluttering in the cold breeze as if partly alive. Strange men and women strolled the halls, wearing every fabric and color of clothing, styling their hair in fashions Eadric had never before encountered. But these people spoke in hushed whispers and looked at one another with guarded glances.

As he walked, Eadric tried to remember what he knew of the king. He brought back to his mind every courtly conversation of Wulfric’s he had ever eavesdropped upon; he even tried to recall the colorful stories of his childhood tutor, Athelward, who had known something of royal life. Where there were gaps in his knowledge, he tried to fill them with his intellect. Ethelred was a mysterious king whose reign had always been overshadowed by the death of his young brother, Edward. People called Edward a martyr and idolized him as the king they should have had. Almost all of Engla-lond’s misfortunes throughout Eadric’s life had been blamed on Ethelred’s so-called incompetence. Eadric sought to understand the true king through the fog of Edward’s ghost. To understand him might mean to befriend him.

In what seemed no time at all, the royal hearth companion bade Eadric to stay in the hall, then disappeared into a room. Eadric waited, heart in his throat, until a deep voice summoned him from within.

Eadric of Staffordshire!

Eadric could hardly breathe as he followed Manton to the king’s chamber. All of his life seemed to flash before his eyes, for he felt as if his life would end today, in some fashion or another: perhaps in death, or perhaps in the beginning of a new life, different from anything he had known before.

As he approached the dark and ominous room, he wondered if this might be some sort of trap. Perhaps death would be his fate. But his feet carried him with blind faith, and he strolled forward regardless of any danger. Within the chilled chamber he paused only so that his eyes could adjust.

The door closed behind them, leaving Eadric and the hearth companion within, along with the shadow looming on the other side of the room.

At last Eadric began to comprehend his surroundings: a small brazier gleamed with fire and an open window let in the cold sunshine, providing the only light. A single table glowed beneath the aperture. What he could see of the room was surprisingly simple, dark and bare but for the necessities of sitting and conversing. Lurking under a silver square of sunlight sat the hunched figure of his liege, King Ethelred of Engla-lond.

The king seemed a monster hiding in darkness and smoke. His ragged silhouette rose and fell as he breathed heavily. His exhalations froze in the air above his head in white vapors. The unruly hairs of his head and cloak glimmered in the sunshine while his face remained in darkness.

My lord. Eadric lowered himself to one knee. He bowed his head to show respect, but also to hide the giddy smile stretching his face. Despite the king’s ominous appearance, or lack thereof, Eadric refused to be daunted. His golden lashes could not conceal the delight glittering in his eyes. It is such an honor to be called here today. How may I serve you?

King Ethelred drew a deep breath, which caught in his throat halfway. Eadric never heard him exhale. He only waited, silent, for the king to finally speak.

Eadric, said the king at last. You are younger than I expected. How old are you?

Sixteen years, my liege.

Sixteen. Half my age then, did you know that? The king sighed and leaned back in his wooden seat with a creak. One side of his face fell into the light. Eadric could see that his eye and his brow were not yet wrinkled with age, but drooping with worry and sorrow. Who is your father?

Father? The smile fell from Eadric’s face. I know little of my father. Why do you ask, my lord?

You know little of your father? Displeasure tightened Ethelred’s voice. Are you a bastard or something?

He uh … died. Eadric gulped. It was a flat-out lie. But how could he confess that he did not even know who his father was?

The king’s dark shape grew terribly still. Eadric wondered if he had said something wrong. Alfric? The king’s voice grated with tension.

Eadric glanced nervously around, though he found no clues in the shadows. I’m sorry, my lord?

Alfric! Now the king sounded outraged. Are you related to Alfric of Mercia? You look like him. Is this another one of his tricks?

On the one hand, the king’s paranoia shocked Eadric. On the other, he knew exactly to whom the king referred.

Eadric met the ealdorman of Mercia when he was a young boy, and the experience had left a strong impression on him. Eadric’s mother, Golde, had served in Lord Alfric’s household before she gave birth to Eadric. Golde did not like to speak of Lord Alfric, and told Eadric only that he was a dangerous man.

Eadric was barely seven years old when Alfric betrayed King Ethelred to the Vikings. King Ethelred had gathered his strongest ships and prepared to launch a surprise attack on the Northmen. The night before a battle could take place, Alfric went to the Vikings and revealed Ethelred’s plans. The next day Alfric escaped with the Danes, though a great deal of blood was still shed, and most of Alfric’s men died on the swords of King Ethelred.

Ethelred’s men had followed Alfric back to Mercia. They raided his manor, stabbing his hearth companions and servants, defiling his wealthy home. Eadric saw some of it happen, for he had defied his mother’s wishes and gone to visit Alfric’s manor for the very first time. Alfric himself had fled for his own life. Eadric hid and listened to the screams of Alfric’s eight-year-old son, Algar, echoing through the halls as Ethelred’s men plunged hot pokers into the boy’s eyes. If young Eadric had ever entertained the notion that his father might be Ealdorman Alfric, those hopes vanished when he saw the image of Alfric’s son with two bloody holes where his eyes should be.

So it was that Eadric’s mother had rescued him and taken him far away. She sought a way to educate him, though this was unheard of for a boy of his status, so that what happened to Alfric might never happen to Eadric himself.

I am sorry I remind you of Alfric. Eadric forced a laugh from his throat, though it felt suddenly dry. The resemblance is coincidental, I am sure. He clutched his own knee to keep his hands from trembling. I never knew my true father. But I grew up among a swineherd before I fell under the tutelage of Athelward, and I am grateful for that childhood. Trust me, my lord, I would rather grow up in the filth of pigs any day than amidst the cowardice of a traitor like Alfric.

The king was silent for such a long time that Eadric worried he had offended him. "You’re … a swineherd? I don’t understand. I thought I summoned Lord Eadric of Staffordshire."

Eadric’s heart drummed in his ears. He felt as bewildered as the king, who also seemed on the verge of madness. But there must be some reason he had been summoned here, beyond mere chance. As Wulfric had said, Ethelred was desperate for advice. Eadric would have to give him some. That may be true, my lord. He dared to lift his head, eyes gleaming silver as he sought to pierce the shadows. But sometimes drastic events put people in unexpected situations. He thought of Ethelred’s own past: the man had become king when he was hardly twelve years of age thanks to the scandalous murder of his brother. People doubted Ethelred’s right to the throne because of this tragedy.

Eadric knew better than to mention this aloud, but he hoped the king brought his own past to mind when Eadric next spoke. When I fell asleep last night I did not expect a private conversation with the liege of our whole Saxon realm on the morrow. No one would expect a poor swineherd such as myself to rise so suddenly to this position. Yet here I am, counseling you, my king, because you sensed that I had something to tell you. And I think you are correct. I am here because your witan has failed you. You need a fresh perspective.

The king leaned forward, the beads and jewels on his robes tinkling. Yes … yes, this is true. I asked you here because I want to understand what you said to Edmund.

Eadric searched his memory in desperation. I told him you were a great king. I told him that your people misunderstood you.

You said something else to him, didn’t you? Something like: a man must protect his own, no matter what?

The servant gulped. I did say something to that effect, my lord.

That’s not very Christian of you, now is it? Were you not taught that a man must love his neighbors like himself?

Eadric felt light-headed. The king seemed to be searching for something, something specific, but he could not imagine what. I will tell you something else about my past, my king, said Eadric carefully. His body trembled, and he could only hope that this voice held firm. When I was young, I witnessed the desecration of another man’s household. I saw boys mauled, women and men slaughtered, all because their lord had failed to protect them. He saw no reason to mention that Ethelred himself was responsible for this massacre. Ever since that day I have understood that the most important duty ever given to a man is the duty to protect his own family. Whatever sin that lord committed, it was not as shameful as his own inability to protect those in his care.

Without any conscious effort, his voice had grown stronger, his body still. Eadric would have said whatever he needed to say to please the king right now. But in this case, he meant every word.

What I am trying to say, my lord, is that loving one’s neighbor is one thing; duty is another. We cannot love our neighbors to the point that it endangers our own household, or causes our own downfall.

Ethelred grimaced. I fear you twist God’s words.

Perhaps. Eadric knew he was walking on dangerous ground here. The king was a very religious man—publicly, anyway. Meanwhile, Eadric’s own mother had never placed much faith in the Bible. Eadric feared that the king’s own rigidity towards the holy word was a part of his problem. If I may, my lord, ask you a question? King Ethelred just scowled. Do you believe your duty to God is the same as a miller’s?

The king shifted violently in his seat, making Eadric flinch. Of course not!

Eadric shrugged. But God teaches one set of rules, doesn’t he? Might it be that He speaks to the common man—but not necessarily to a king?

Ethelred’s eyes glinted through the blackness as he narrowed them. I am not yet sure what you mean, but it sounds like blasphemy.

Blasphemy? Eadric bowed his head low. I am sorry if I offended you.

This had exactly the effect Eadric hoped it would, and after a moment, the king softened. You’re a strongly opinionated young man, aren’t you?

Eadric kept his head low. I am merely a child of God, as are you, my lord, dare I say it. I don’t claim to preach anything, for I am a sinner in constant need of God’s grace, as is the next man. If I possess any philosophy, it would only be that I believe in enjoying my time on this earth to the best of my ability.

Enjoying? Ethelred sat up a little, letting the sun warm a bit more of his own face. We live for the Lord, you and I, and the enjoyment of this world is both rare and futile, is it not? Joy on this earth is reserved for sinners. You and I will see our own rewards in heaven. The words rolled off Ethelred’s tongue with familiarity rather than reverence.

Nervousness burned through Eadric’s veins. Like a man possessed, he smiled mischievously. Is that what you tell yourself when you betray your wife—this one, or the last one—and bring harlots to your bed?

The king stood up so quickly that his chair flew out beneath him. The ring of steel drawn from the king’s own sheath echoed about the chamber. Manton, standing by the doorway, grabbed Eadric’s shoulder and pushed him to his knees.

Sunlight splintered off the surface of Ethelred’s sword as he stepped around the table and approached the young churl. He rested the blade against Eadric’s neck, nicking the sparse blond hairs that refused to form a full beard.

Leave us, said the king. The weight on Eadric’s shoulder lifted. The hearth companion bowed his head and departed.

When the door closed behind him, Ethelred’s grip on the sword wavered.

Well it’s true, isn’t it? Eadric strained to look up, even though this made the metal scrape his skin. He looked into the king’s eyes as if to confront the truth. Previously that year, Ethelred had married his second wife, Emma of Normandy, a young girl only twelve years of age. She brought with her great political power from Duke Richard, a Danish sympathizer. It was common knowledge that Ethelred committed adultery with his last wife, and certainly he continued the practice now that he was married to little more than a child. Either way, I don’t blame you.

After a long silence, Ethelred pulled his sword from Eadric’s throat and slid it back into its sheath.

You’re a strange young man, indeed. The king reached for something hidden in the shadows of the table—a goblet, filled with ale, no doubt—and emptied it with a single gulp. Wiping his fair beard, he stared into the ray of sunlight coming through the window. You are young, and still full of hope. I daresay, however, you’re very foolish.

I’m still alive, am I not? Risking himself once more, Eadric rose to his feet, for the stone floor made his knees ache.

Ethelred turned and studied the young man. After another tense moment, he broke into laughter. That’s true. So you are.

Eadric allowed himself a small smile of relief. When I spoke of harlots, I did not wish to offend you, Lordship. I see nothing wrong with the practice.

Oh hush! chuckled Ethelred. Have you even been with a woman yet, boy?

Indeed I have, said Eadric. He smiled at the memory. I was thirteen. And she was a maid, who taught me a few things.

Ethelred laughed so hard that he set down his goblet with a clatter. A maid! I should have suspected as much. Nevertheless, you are still young. You know little of the treachery of women.

That may be so. But what is treachery, my lord?

Eh?

It is everywhere we turn, I think. Are we not all descendants of Adam and Eve? Surely we must pray to the Lord for constant guidance, but even with His help, we still harbor the potential for mistakes.

Hmm ... The king chuckled and nodded.

I hope to get into heaven, my liege, but I like to prepare for the possibility I won’t manage. That is why I seek enjoyment where I can, and I applaud anyone else who does the same. Besides, if God one day fulfills all our desires in heaven, does that not suggest He values pleasure? Do you consider that way of thinking a sin, my lord?

Whatever it is, said Ethelred as he refilled his goblet, I like it. He chortled into the depths of his ale and drank heartily. What do you say to that one teaching ... how does it go? When another man strikes you on the cheek, offer your other cheek to be stricken. What do you say to that, young Eadric?

Honestly?

The mirth faded from Ethelred’s face and he looked Eadric in the eyes. Yes. Honestly.

It is as I said before, my liege. What applies to the common man does not apply to a king. And if does, then we’re done for. After all, if a king turns his cheek, a great many people get slapped.

Ethelred stared at Eadric with a ridiculous look on his face, one bushy eyebrow cocked. Then at last he shook his head. I’m not sure if you’re mad or ingenious. But you’re certainly well-spoken. Who did you say was your tutor?

Athelward.

Athelward, the writer? From Wessex?

Yes.

Ah, then it is no wonder. He certainly had a mind of his own. But I can’t imagine he taught you to think this way?

No, he didn’t. He taught me to think for myself, and so I do. And as to who had taught him to think the way he did, Eadric’s mother had been a stronger influence than anyone.

Ah. God rest his soul. Ethelred reached into the darkness, feeling around the shadows of the table. Eadric recalled hearing a rumor once that Ethelred did not like candles because his mother struck him with them as a child. He never believed such a silly story until now, watching the king grope about in the dark. Here, boy. The king finally pulled a second