Revisiting the Staffordshire Hoard

Here’s another guest post by Evelyn Croft, this time about the fascinating Staffordshire Hoard. To read about my own trip to see the Staffordshire Hoard, go here:  England Trip Day 5 and 6

Revisiting The Staffordshire Hoard

“Rise Up O Lord, and may thy enemies be dispersed and those who hate thee be driven from thy face…” English translation of Latin inscription taken from three Christian crosses found in the hoard itself.

One of the most awe inspiring finds of recent years was that of the Staffordshire Hoard, a collection of Anglo Saxon metal and gold work which was found, quite by chance by two farmers, tending their land near the small town of Lichfield in Staffordshire. This amazing collection of artefacts were dated to around the 7^th or 8^th century AD, from the time of the Kingdom of Mercia and have created much debate over our commonly held conceptions of Anglo Saxon life. A recent news story reveals that efforts are being made to raise funds to keep some of the more recently discovered pieces, found in November 2012, with the ones that were uncovered from the original excavation back in 2009 after fears were raised they may end up separated.

An important haul of treasure and knowledge

The Staffordshire Hoard has some 3,500 pieces within it that have been excavated in the four years since the original discoveries were made. In November 2012 a further 91 pieces were uncovered and 81 of these have been officially declared as treasure. In order that they are kept with the originally excavated treasures, the local councils in Birmingham and Stoke-on-Trent have to try and raise almost £60,000 to save them. Leaders of both authorities believe the new finds are best kept with the originals so that the entire collection can be kept together. Historians also believe it would be folly to separate them.

The story behind the hoard

The hoard is quite simply unrivalled anywhere else in the UK or Europe. It contains almost 5,100 kilos of gold, 1,442 kilos of silver and garnet stones that may have come from as far away as Sri Lanka. Historians believe that the artifacts mostly relate to war or martial combat. 166 of the pieces were either pommel caps (the tip of the sword that keeps the hilt fittings attached to the blade of the sword itself) or hilt plates and the garnets were used to elaborately decorate these.

The working of the metals and gems themselves are an incredible sight to behold. These craftsmen were creating in times before fancy gadgetry and electricity. They would have had the most rudimentary of tools and equipment to help them create these magnificent pieces, yet they managed to work so successfully and so beautifully to make a hoard that literally takes the breath away.

What is most puzzling about the hoard is that normally, when such finds are buried there is usually a grave nearby or perhaps even a building, something that would normally give a clue as to why so much of such a high value was being buried. Hoards on a smaller scale, but of a similar nature to this are sometimes thought to be hidden away when perhaps the owners felt threatened, were about to be killed or attacked in some way. To make a comparison, we have to look to Sutton Hoo to find anything similar. When that was uncovered in 1939, there were finds similar to Staffordshire, but on a smaller scale. The main difference here was that they knew they were dealing with a lavish burial. Here, there is no such indication.

Another significant fact is that there are no feminine items in there – no suggestion of any fancy jewellery like brooches, hair clips, bracelets or fittings for dresses, nothing to suggest any of the treasure had any female connection, which also leads to speculation that the hoard was mainly the spoils of war that had been seized and accumulated over a period of time by the winning forces of a battle or battles within the realm of Mercia.

The area the hoard was found in

At the time of the original excavation of the site, a geophysical survey and aerial photographs were taken in order that a study of the ground could be made, that might give historians and archaeologists clues as to the lie of the land and any possible buildings that may give clues as to the reason for the deposits. Initial results of both showed that the finds may have been placed close to a ditch or set of earthworks. However, a dig of the area highlighted by the pictures and geophys failed to reveal anything that could positively date the area, though further excavation work is planned at some point in the future. We know for certain that this particular area of England was part of the Kingdom of Mercia around the time the hoard was deposited. It was discovered in a place that would have been very near, or almost on the famous Roman thoroughfare of Watling Street and would more than likely still have been used at the time the hoard was deposited. Mercia was a kingdom that became a place fraught with many violent yet quick battles and skirmishes and had some of the most tyrannical Kings and Noblemen England has ever seen. Athelbald, who ruled the kingdom between the years of 716-757 was one of the first to style himself as King of Britain, yet he was vastly unpopular and eventually was murdered by two of his bodyguards. The spoils may relate to his rule. Some historians are keen to relate the finds to King Edwin of Northumberland (586-633) a monarch who was killed in battle after turning to Christianity in 627. Many others argue that the sheer volume and nature of the finds make the case that they could not solely be attributed to one person alone and the dating of the pieces may also make them too far forward on in history to be linked to Edwin.

Some historians have even turned to Beowulf for answers. They believe certain lines in the poem describe the method in which the burial was left. It speaks of warrior stripping warrior after being killed in battle, that the body of the dead would be looted, anything of worth stolen and then buried: “They let the ground keep that ancestral treasure, gold under gravel, gone to earth, as useless as it ever was”.

Whilst historians may not be any nearer discovering who left this treasure and why, it is a mystery which has kept many engaged and intrigued and looks set to for a long time to come yet. It is hoped that the local councils in Staffordshire and Birmingham can raise the money they need to keep these extensive treasures in England so that they can be studied and viewed by generations to come.

**

Article by Evelyn Croft

Meeting The Monarchs: The Hunt For King Alfred

Today I am pleased to share a guest article written by Evelyn Croft. The recent discoveries of hard-working archaeologists are very exciting, indeed. It makes me wonder if the remains of Eadric Streona might one day be discovered. Alas, given the disgraceful nature of his death, that is highly unlikely!

***

Meeting The Monarchs: The Hunt For King Alfred

Over the last few months the world has watched in awe as the story of the last Plantagenet King of England, Richard III unfolded. With his body being found in a car park, and the resultant tests on the skeleton and facial reconstruction bringing forth much historical debate and scholarly discussion on matters relating to his rule and now how and where his body should be reburied.

Whilst this was happening, in another corner of the United Kingdom, work was also being quietly undertaken to ascertain whether the body of possibly the most well known Anglo-Saxon King, Alfred The Great, has now been found and what this means in terms of research on his life and times.

Alfred The Great

It is thought that the bones of Alfred The Great (c849-899), who ruled from 871 to his death, and who was born in Wantage, Oxfordshire, had lain in St Bartholomew’s Church, Winchester since the 19^th Century. He had previously been buried at Hyde Abbey, but when it was ruined during the 1530s, the his remains and possibly five of his family members including his wife were exhumed and reburied in the aforementioned church.

This recent excavation comes about after it was feared that following the successful excavation of Richard III, there may be an attempt to steal the bones or vandalize the resting place. The decision to undertake the exhumation was made by the Parish Council of St Bartholomews church.

Long standing arguments settled

If these are indeed the bones of Alfred, it will settle a long argument as to what actually happened to him after his death, as it was for a long time felt that his bones had been lost forever. This is not an unusual occurrence for the time – as in the following century, Alfred’s grandson King Athelstan (generally though to be first King of England as a united country) died and was buried in Malmesbury Abbey, but his tomb is now believed to be empty and his remains lost.

The University of Winchester is seeking to gain permission to undertake osteo-archaeological and DNA study of the bones exhumed to ascertain whether they do belong to Alfred and his wife and family or not.

The chances that they are his remains are entirely plausible. When the bones were first exhumed from Hyde Abbey hundreds of years ago, they were said to be the oldest there. Monks had only been present at Hyde from the 12 century onwards, meaning the only other burials there may have been higher ranked individuals from previous centuries. Scientists will need to undertake a radio carbon dating of the remains to ascertain their age. If they date from the 10^th century or even slightly before it offers an excellent probability that they belong to Alfred and his family.

What his bones may be able to tell us

One of the main issues with the bones, if they are that of the late King, is that they are now so old that DNA might be totally impossible to extract – though it is not impossible.

In 2008, the body of Alfred’s granddaughter Princess Eadgyth was unearthed Magdeburg Cathedral, Germany, more than 1000 years after her own death. Her remains had also been thought lost, but had actually been reburied as late as 1510 in a lead sarcophagus in the Cathedral. On studying the bones they were able to find out that she ate a high protein diet, rich in marine life that she was a frequent horse rider and that most importantly, they indicated that she had been born in the Kingdom of Wessex, which proved beyond all doubt she was Alfred’s granddaughter.

If it was possible for Scientists to be able to take a sample, perhaps from one of the teeth or indeed leg bones that may have survived, this can provide a rich seam of information for the modern historian on everything from his diet, his lifestyle, his overall health and any medical conditions he may have suffered from, including matters pertaining to his sexual health too. Osteo-archaeologists can tell from merely looking at the bones themselves what conditions a person suffered from in life. If, for instance, the King suffered from a condition such as syphilis, the bones of his legs or arms may be pock-marked or take on a honeycomb style appearance. They will show up any mineral deficiencies he may have had and even might be able to indicate whether he suffered from any degenenerative or chronic health conditions that may have shortened his lifespan.

Once permission is gained to begin the study and examination of the bones it is hoped that a whole new interest in a fascinating King and a relatively little known period of history will be re-kindled. Archaeologists involved also hope that in the event the bones are proved to be Alfred’s, they may also be able to find living descendants just as they have done with the late King Richard.

____

Article by Evelyn Croft

5/1/2013

 

The Key to Castle Krondolee

Greetings everyone! I bring both good news and bad.

First the good news: releasing much earlier than expected is my stand-alone novella, “The Key to Castle Krondolee.” This story takes place in the world of the Broken Balance series (“Ashes of Dearen,” “Sands of Hanubi”) and introduces some of the characters of the upcoming animation, “Serafina’s Saga.” In any case, it should be a good romp of fun on its own, with some action and romance packed into a book about a fourth the size of my usual fare. Also, it’s free!

You can download it now in just about any ebook format (including .pdf for computer) from Smashwords. Soon it will appear in other retail outlets, as well.

A foreigner surprises everyone in the Castle of Krondolee when she claims to possess the key to a room that has remained closed for centuries, its contents unknown. Arken Jeridar, descended from the god of greed, schemes to win the key for himself and the queen’s love all at once. But success may come at a far greater cost than he ever expected.

Now for the not so great news… my historical romance, “The Prince and the Pretender,” is going to be releasing a little later than previously expected, probably not until fall. I have been too busy with other projects+life to start promoting it as planned. However, I am looking once more into whether any big publishers want to pick it up. So we shall see what happens.

In the meantime, I really hope you enjoy “The Key to Castle Krondolee.” I had a blast writing it. And please let me know what you think when you’re done. Reviews or direct comments/emails are very much appreciated. Please remember that unless you give me such feedback, I never have any idea that my writing has impacted you in some way. I don’t know that you liked this or that character, or you really loved one scene, but hated another. I’m not psychic. I have no way of knowing these things you specifically tell me. And knowing that people are enjoying my work is what keeps me going (especially when I give work away for free)! So if you enjoy all the writing I’ve done, please take a moment to write back to me, it means a great deal each and every time.

St Clare’s Valentine

Okay, so Valentine’s Day is over. So I thought it would be safe now to release a short story of mine that I wrote a few years ago that happens to be about Valentine’s Day and also happens to be very bitter (though not specifically bitter *about* Valentine’s Day). It’s bitter about Hollywood.

I don’t normally write stories from real life, it’s just not my style. However, this story comes largely from experiences I had while working in Los Angeles. And that’s all I will say about that. Any similarities to real people/events are, er, coincidental =D

So here it is…

* St Clare’s Valentine *

Seven hours down, four to go. Four to go. Four hours, seven minutes … seven minutes … six minutes …

The little black numbers got blurrier the longer Charlie stared at them. He stared into a computer screen all day, slowly growing blind. 3:24. Twenty-four minutes meant almost half an hour. Which meant almost past the halfway point to 4:00. But of course, he wasn’t past the halfway point yet, he hadn’t even reached it yet. It was only 3:25. The fucking twenties were so deceptive.

During his seven hours of work, he had answered a few phone calls and copied a script. That was all.
Seven hours of nothing.

He should be grateful, right? He had a job most people would give a rib for. He worked on a TV show. He hoped to be a screenwriter, eventually. He expected that to require about eight more years of jobs like this, jobs that were hard to get because everyone else wanted them. Sure, it was hard now, but one day he’d rake in the dough, he’d see his name in big lights … or at least in the credits of a blockbuster film.

The days here varied extremely. About seventy percent of the time, he sat at his desk and did nothing. The rest of the time, he drove around the congested city of Los Angeles picking up food and groceries. He hated doing that. So he should be glad it was a slow day.

Right?

For some reason, he couldn’t stop thinking about his dog. His dog was a white mutt named Spirit. Charlie picked her up from the humane society just a few days before he landed this job. It was a foolish thing to do–getting a dog before he had a job–but he just wanted one so badly. Spirit was the only thing that kept Charlie sane, made him look forward to going home. But she was also the reason it was so hard to stay at work. Because of Charlie’s horrible hours, Spirit had to stay at home all day, sleeping, holding her bladder until Charlie got home and could take her outside. Was that really so much better than the humane society? Charlie hoped so, but sometimes he wasn’t so sure. The humane society had a little yard. Charlie could only walk her down a street of dead lawns and dirty cement.

He wanted to see Spirit. He wanted to have the energy to play with her, to take her outside, let her free, and watch her run around. Instead, he was stuck here. Doing nothing.

“Would you shut the hell up?”

The request came from his co-worker, Travis, who sat at a little desk across from Charlie. Charlie realized he was tapping his pen on the desk and making a lot of noise. “Oh, sorry.”

Travis rolled his eyes and went back to work. Work for Travis meant either trying to date girls online or write movie reviews. As if either of the two pastimes would get him anywhere.

“Hey.”

Both Charlie and Travis turned to look at the speaker, then jumped to attention. Charlie’s heart thundered in his chest. At the doorway to their office stood the showrunner, Kane Gibsy. As far as Charlie and Travis were concerned, Kane was just a step down from God. He had complete control of the show, even if some of the executive producers tried to say otherwise. He usually stayed in his office so he could write scripts or review dailies without disturbance. His assistant did everything else for him: reminded him when he had meetings, called his inferiors, carried his orders down to the writers, editors, and producers. Why was Kane standing here, in person, in the production assistants’ office? Had they done something wrong? Were they getting fired?

No. The assistant would have fired them.

Kane liked to carry around a really big stick. It was probably some sort of weapon, Charlie didn’t know. Kane was a karate master of some type. He could probably kill everyone in the office with a flick of his finger, and he liked to remind them by carrying around the big stick and spinning it. “Today’s fucking Valentine’s Day, isn’t it?”

Charlie’s eyes shot back to his computer. His trembling hand grabbed the mouse and dragged it over the clock so the date showed–

“Yes, it’s Valentine’s Day,” said Travis. No, no, no! Travis got to it first! He had a smirk on his face, the bastard.

“Fuck!” cried Kane. He slammed the stick against the door frame, making both the assistants jump in their chairs. “Jane didn’t remind me!” Jane was Kane’s assistant. Man would she be in trouble.

“You need something for the lady?” suggested Charlie, giving a manly grin like he understood Kane’s dilemma and was on the same page.

“Yeah. Um …” Kane ran his muscular hand through his hair, the hoary kind of hair that was fashionable and intimidating on a Hollywood executive. “Um … how about a flower? A fucking flower.”

“What kind?” Charlie already had a pen and notepad in hand, ready to write down his instructions down to the number of leaves.

“What do you think?” said Kane.

Charlie wasn’t sure if that was some sort of reproach, or if he genuinely wanted Charlie’s opinion.

“White orchid,” said Travis. “It’s exotic. It’s romantic. It’s expensive.”

“See,” said Kane, shaking his stick toward Charlie’s coworker, “he gets it.”

Charlie thought fast. “Where would you like me to pick it up?” He could see the disappointment in Travis’s eyes. Score! He had the job now.

“The most expensive place,” said Kane. He pulled out his wallet, drew a credit card, and flicked it onto Charlie’s desk.

“The Perfect Petal on La Brea,” offered Travis.

“Sure,” said Kane. He turned the stick on Charlie, leaning close as if to stab out Charlie’s eye. “You’re a writer, right?”

The question was music to Charlie’s ears. “Yes, sir!”

“Then write her a fucking good letter.”

“Sure,” said Charlie, waiting to gulp until Kane leaned back and walked out.

Both the assistants blew a sigh of relief.

“Well then,” said Charlie, “I’m off.”

Bitterness dripped into Travis’s voice. “Shouldn’t you call first? It’s Valentine’s Day. They’ll be packed.”

“And what, have them prepare the flower for me? Calling will only waste more time.” Feeling proud of himself, Charlie grabbed his jacket, his keys, his badge that let him swipe in and out of the studio, and he was off.

#

Stuck in the heat and pollution of Los Angeles traffic, Charlie wished he hadn’t been so quick to take the errand. Too late now.

Sweat poured down his face and onto the collar of his shirt. The weather outside wasn’t bad, but Charlie didn’t have air conditioning in his car, and no matter how far he rolled down the windows, the inner heat kept rising. He hated rolling down his windows, anyway. At almost every stop light he’d see homeless people on the street and pray they wouldn’t walk up and harass him. He also knew that the term “fresh air” didn’t exist in LA. The more air he breathed outside, the more pollution he let into his lungs.

When he first moved to LA five years ago, he didn’t notice the pollution so much. He figured he’d be sensitive to the air at first, then get used to it. The opposite phenomenon occurred instead. The longer he lived here, the more he smelled the stink in the air. Maybe the pollution accumulated in his lungs, and eventually stacked all the way up to his nostrils, which was why he now smelled it all the time.

God. He hated this city.

His heart thundered in his chest and new beads of sweat dripped from his brow. “The address,” he gasped aloud. He’d been so quick to rush out of the office, he forgot to check the directions to Kane’s house.

No problem, right? Charlie typed up so many address forms he should know it by heart.  730 … Oceanic … no, 731 … damn!

A minor problem. He could call and ask, of course, but that would be admitting his mistake. First he had to get the flower. Then he would drive to the approximate area, and he would figure it out. He would figure it out!

It took him half an hour to drive the five miles to La Brea. It took him another fifteen to park. He circled the block twice, which meant breaking the law twice, because one intersection didn’t allow left turns. Then he saw a spot.

No! Yellow paint!

Too late. He had his blinkers on and the car was in reverse. The cars behind him honked as he parallel parked into the yellow spot.

He crawled over the passenger seat to get onto the pavement. He locked the car up and stood a moment, tapping his foot on the dirty cement. He didn’t see any cops or meter maids. Maybe he’d be okay.

Once he made up his mind to take the risk, he rushed into the Perfect Petal. His momentum came to an abrupt halt as he ran smack into a wall of people. The store was packed. Naturally. It was one of the most prestigious flower stores in Hollywood, and today was Valentine’s Day.

He pushed through the crowd, ignoring their groans and curses, and made his way through the rows of flowers. Fortunately for him, the orchards were easy to find. Tall, elegant, beautiful, white–expensive. From here on out it should be easy. Pick the most expensive flower, get in line, think of a letter to write while standing in line, write it, check out, leave. Bam. Done.

One little hiccup. There were two kinds of white orchards: cut, and potted. God, which one did Kane want him to buy? Cut was the traditional gift, right? But this wasn’t a bouquet. It was a single flower.

Potted, then. Besides, potted was more expensive.

He made his pick. He stood in line. He racked his mind for an appropriate letter. After all, he was a writer, wasn’t he? “Dear …” Oh God, he didn’t even know her name! “To the love of my life, May this flower remind you of my love for you, always growing. Yours, Kane.” Too cheesy? He couldn’t picture Kane saying those words. But he couldn’t picture Kane saying “I love you” either, and surely he occasionally said that. It would have to do.

He had to wait fifteen minutes for his turn. Once there, his palms got sweaty and his heart thundered. This happened every time he had to use someone else’s credit card, and this time it was Kane’s. He always worried that A, he’d be arrested for a false signature, or B, he’d lose the credit card. He’d lost his own credit card once. Who could say it wouldn’t happen again?

Fortunately, the cashier was in such a hurry to work through the line, she didn’t ask for an ID and didn’t give him hell about his signature. Charlie orated the letter he came up with and she attached it to the pot. He took his receipt of $115 and carefully placed it, and the credit card, into his wallet.

So far so good.

When Charlie returned to his car, he had a neon parking ticket under the wiper blades. He let out the inevitable exclamation “Shit!” and threw the ticket into his car.  Under normal conditions he was such a responsible, careful person. But he couldn’t afford to be in this job. Fortunately, the show or studio would pay his ticket for him. He hated the situation all the same.

The drive to Santa Monica went smoothly except for the five minutes or so on the highway. He had the plant situated carefully behind the passenger seat while both front windows were down and the sunroof rolled back. He didn’t realize what a problem this was until traffic forced him to slow down and he glanced back at it. The orchid’s delicate little petals fluttered in the wind and looked ready to rip straight off the stem. Panting and cursing, he rolled all the windows back up. In a matter of seconds he felt fresh sweat pouring down his brow, but at least the plant was safe.

Charlie almost had victory in his grasp. He parked on Oceanic Ave. All he had to do was figure out which house belonged to Kane Gibsy, deliver the flower, and his mission would be accomplished.

He tried 731 first, if only because it was on the same side he parked his car. Beautiful red bricks made up the walls, satin spar framed the door and windows, and flowers of every sort blossomed everywhere. He opened the gate to step onto the cobblestone path to the doorway, and the flowery foliage practically formed walls on either side of him. Hell, would this woman notice another flower in her garden?

Only a few feet remained between him and the doorway when it swung open of its own accord. Behind the door stood a woman Charlie’s height, maybe a dozen years his senior, her build muscular but elegant, her face square and pronounced with the most intense green eyes he had ever seen. Thick, black hair spilled over her shoulders in voluptuous curls, but something about it didn’t seem to match her skin and eyes. It was beautiful, but it was fake. Dyed. He couldn’t help but notice her chest was small enough to be real, however. It’s the sort of thing one develops a second sense for in Hollywood. She wore sweats and a baggy white T-shirt like she hadn’t left the house all day.

“What do you want?” She had a sharp Irish accent. Intimidating, but gorgeous.

“Are you Mrs. Gibsy?”

“I’m Hannah.”

“Uh, yes, but are you Kane Gibsy’s wife?”

She sighed. “Yes, I’m Hannah Gibsy. Who wants to know?”

Charlie blew out a sigh of relief. “I work for Kane. I have a delivery for you. Just hold on a second, I’ll go get it–”

“Oh really?”

Something in her voice made him stop and turn back around. “Is that okay?”

She sighed, her wave of anger fading. “Sure, fine. Let’s see what he got me this year.”

Charlie forced a smile and jogged back to his car. He couldn’t explain why, but something about this situation was … wrong. Tension stiffened all his muscles and clenched his throat, as if he could hear a bomb ticking, ready to go off.

He carefully picked up the orchid and made his way back to the wild Gibsy garden. He had trouble holding the pot in one hand while he unlatched the gate with the other, but Hannah didn’t help him. She just watched him, unmoving, as if the same tension seized her own muscles. As he approached, he did his best to keep a smile on his face, but the smile got heavier with every step he took. He stopped just a foot away from her, holding the orchid between them, clearing his throat and saying, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

She hardly wore an expression, but such a fire burned in her eyes he wondered why the orchid didn’t wither into dust.

“Set it down,” she said. When he hesitated, she raised her voice. “Set it down!”

He put the plant down on the ground.

“Haaaaiiii-YAH!” Hannah lifted her foot, swung it an arch above the plant, and sent her heel crashing into the side of the pot. Charlie yelped aloud, his mouth hanging open and every drop of blood draining from his skin. In his head he thought, “There just went my job.”

“What … what … what the hell was that?” he finally gasped.

She was out of breath, a rosy hue flushing both her cheeks. But her eyes sparkled as she returned her gaze to his. “Fifteen fucking years of fucking flowers.”

“What?”

“Every birthday. Every anniversary. Every Valentine’s Day. Every fucking chance, he gives me flowers.” She swept her arm around her body in an elegant indication of her garden. “Do you think I bought any of these on my own? Do you?”

“Um … no?”

“That’s right. No. Do you want to know the truth? Do you?”

No, he didn’t. But he said “Yes.”

“I hate flowers. I hate watching them die. The first time he bought me flowers, I thought it was sweet. I pretended to like them. I put them in a garden and I took care of them because I didn’t want to watch them wither away. He thought I loved them. So the next time, he bought me more. And the next, and the next, and the next.”

As much as Charlie feared her wrath, he wanted his job even more, so he stayed on Kane’s side. “You probably should have told him, you know. That you … that you didn’t like flowers.”

“Tell him my ass. Do you know what I used to do for a living? I was a stuntwoman, in films. That’s how we met. We melted all over each other, we married. Then one day, I broke my leg. Kane sold a script. He said I didn’t need to do stunts anymore, we had plenty of money, why risk myself, right? Right?”

Charlie shrugged helplessly.

“Wrong.” Tears fragmented the green of her bright eyes. Her nose crinkled and she put a hand over her trembling mouth. “God. You have to get back on the horse once you fall off, you know? I waited too long. I got soft. I got scared. Now all I do is stay at home and tend fucking flowers that I fucking HATE!”
She walked up to the orchid, still sprawled across the cobblestones in one piece. She lifted her foot directly above the ovule …

“NO–!”

Too late. Her foot smashed down into the heart of the blossom, first flattening it, then grinding it into pieces. She continued to smash and grind as she talked. “You drive back to Kane,” she grunted. “You tell him that’s it. I’ve had enough. I’m sick of fame and fortune. I’m sick of flowers. I’m sick of how he has made us both forget who I really am. You tell him that. Because I won’t be here anymore when he gets home.”

She stopped stomping. She turned around. She went limp, like the fight had gone out of her, like she had nothing else left. She began to ascend her porch steps.

Charlie felt light-headed. Adrenaline burned in his stomach. His own hands curled into fists and forced the muscles of his forearms to bulge. It couldn’t end this way. It just couldn’t. Because this would be the end. If Kane didn’t kill him on sight, he would fire him, then see to it that Charlie never got a job in Hollywood again. That’s how it worked. That’s what would happen. And none of it would be his fault, but that didn’t matter. He would just be one of the losers, one of the guys who “didn’t make it.”

“STOP!” he cried.

She was already reaching for the doorknob. But she stopped.

“Listen,” he gasped. “This is … this is my fault. This isn’t Kane’s.” He had to lie. He had to lie to stay alive.

Inch by inch, she turned her head, looked at him again. “How is this your fault?”

“Kane, uh … Kane left me a note, on my desk, telling me what to get you for Valentine’s Day. I was in such a hurry to leave the office, I forgot to bring the note with me. Then I … I called the other production assistant. He told me what was really on the note, but I didn’t believe him. It sounded … it sounded like a silly gift. The other production assistant, see, he wants to see me fail so if either of us ever gets promoted, it will be him and not me. See what I mean?”

She hesitated a long time, but finally said, “Sure … yeah, I know how it is.”

“Exactly. So I thought he was lying. I thought he wanted me to screw up and get you a stupid gift. But after hearing what you said … I think I’m the one who got it wrong. What I thought seemed stupid was actually a sign that Kane understands you. Let me fix this. Let me go get what Kane really wanted you to have. Don’t let my mistake be the last straw of your relationship. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I should have talked to Jane, I should have confirmed the contents of the note myself. You’ll see. Let me fix this.”

She stared at him, skeptical, but desperate. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe in Kane.

“Fine,” she said finally. “Fine. I’ll wait an hour. But if you’re telling the truth … you’re a horrible PA.”

Charlie laughed sheepishly and shrugged. Whatever worked. Whatever let him keep his job.

He would fix this. He would make it right. He had to.

He had to get her the perfect gift.

#

On this errand, the errand that would decide whether he ever had an errand again, he remained cool and collected. He felt like he had a rock in his gut, but his hands didn’t tremble, his feet didn’t trip. He knew what he had to do, even if he couldn’t rationalize it, even if it sounded stupid.

He found it in a store less crowded. He found it on sale, cheap, unwanted by most. He bought it anyway.

He paid for it with his own card.

And he wrote her a long, long letter.

Dear Hannah,
    I watched one of your old movies yesterday. I remembered how things used to be, how you used to be. I remembered the life and excitement I’d see in your eyes after a dangerous shoot. I realized I hadn’t seen the same light in your eyes for a long, long time.
    I’m not telling you to pick up your old career. I still want you to be safe. What I am saying is that I never should have told you to stop. It should have been your decision then, and it should be your decision now. I want you to find that excitement again.
    Love shouldn’t require as much care as you’ve had to provide. It should be strong enough to stand on its own, to exist for its own sake. It should only need nourishment every once and awhile. That’s why this year, I’m giving you something different.
    Tell me when you’ve made up your mind.
Yours, Kane.

The gift was a cactus. Charlie left it on the porch of the Gibsy house with the note firmly attached. Along with the note supposedly from Kane, Charlie scribbled another one of his own.

This is what Kane really wanted to give you, he wrote. Don’t let my mistake be the end. Give it another chance.

He got in his car and drove back to the studio.

#

When he returned, Jane berated him for being gone so long. Charlie didn’t say much. He sat in his chair, resigned to whatever fate would bring him, and he said, “Tell Kane they were out of orchids.”

“Out of orchids?” Jane was particularly upset because Kane had already reprimanded her for not writing

“Valentine’s Day” on his white board. She looked down at the receipt Charlie had given her along with Kane’s credit card. Lady Luck had been kind enough to omit the specification of “orchid” on the receipt. Instead, it read “Miscellaneous.” “Then what the hell did you spend a hundred and fifteen dollars on?”

“A cactus.”

Jane’s face turned beet red. “A cactus?! You idiot, how am I supposed to tell him you bought his wife a fucking–”

“Tell Kane whatever you want,” Charlie sighed. “Tell him I had to buy something else. However …” His eyes met Jane’s, so confident, so unwavering, that she waited to hear what he had to say. “However, I wrote a very, very good letter.”

Jane just stared at him a moment, perplexed. She mumbled, “Well if there’s heat for this, you’re getting it, not me. You need to learn to communicate, to use your cell phone. To tell me when there’s a problem, so we can work it out together … fuck, I’ve had a really bad day.”

She wandered back out. Charlie leaned back in his chair and sighed.

Kane never visited the production assistants’ office again. He never thanked Charlie for the really good letter.

But one day, they passed each other in the hallway, and Kane did a double-take. He stopped for a moment, staring at Charlie, squinting.

“Hm,” he said, and then walked off.

Charlie knew then he had saved Kane’s marriage. He had saved Kane’s marriage, but he wouldn’t get a promotion for it. He wouldn’t even get a “thank you.”

That’s what it means to be a production assistant. You do what you have to do, period. You pay your dues. You climb the thorny, neverending ladder.

It might not be a good job. But it’s the stuff of screenplays, that’s for sure.

***

Updates

Greetings everyone! Sorry I don’t post here too often these days, but now I have some exciting updates to share with you.

First of all, “Sands of Hanubi: Book 1,” Vol. 3 of the Broken Balance series, has released online and in paperback. For those of you who like to hold a solid book in your hands, the paperback is only $9.99 from Amazon. This is the first time I’ve been able to make any of my paperbacks so cheap, so please take advantage!

Secondly, some of you may recall that I have been in school for animation. I am still writing as always, but lately I have also been hard at work on my first little animated series. I still have a long way to go as an artist, I think, but I am making progress and excited to see where it might take me in the future. I am working on this animation under my real name and I may promote it separately from my other works, but I still wanted to let you all know about it. The animated series will be called “Serafina’s Saga” and it actually takes place in the same world as “Ashes of Dearen” and “Sands of Hanubi” on a different continent with whole new characters. You can expect some of the same gods to show up as the story unfolds, however.

If you want a little taste of the look and feel of the animation, here is the opening:

Eventually “Serafina’s Saga” will have its own website and much more. For now, I’ve just started a tumblr for it, so follow me there if you’re interested: http://thecrazyanimator.tumblr.com/

Finally, here’s some news for the historical fiction readers out there. Last year I wrote a historical romance about Xenia Godunova, False Dmitri, and Dmitri Pozharsky, all of whom are very exciting figures of Russian history. The novel is heavily researched and also dives into the murder mystery surrounding the supposed death of Tsarevich Dmitri, son of Ivan the Terrible, and his controversial reappearance many years later. I plan to release this novel May 2013. Before then I may post the first few chapters here on this blog. So keep a lookout!

Happy Holidays to all of you!

Sands of Hanubi Releasing December

Greetings, readers! I hope you are enjoying Edric the Wild if you’ve had a chance to start reading it. I am very curious to hear from more readers what you think of Wild Edric’s saga!

But for those of you who prefer my fantasy stories, I know you have been wondering what Sean, Picard, and the characters of Ashes of Dearen are up to.  So I assure you that the next installment of the series, Sands of Hanubi: Book 1, will release by December this year. It will feature some old characters and some new ones, as well as an entirely new kingdom for them to roam and fight over.

If you’d like a taste of what’s to come, here’s a little excerpt!

Releasing December 2012

Excerpt from Chapter 1

Gregor met Angelo in Port Fogsrow, the last place Gregor and the Lucky Licker had docked. They saw each other in a tavern and recognized an immediate attraction. After a frenzied tumble in the tavern stables, Angelo confessed that he had heard of Greedy Gregor and wanted to join his crew. He knew of a island in the Kelt Seas that harbored an item coveted by the gods themselves. Angelo refused to say what the item was, and every time Gregor asked, the fellow grew timid. As for why the gods had not bothered to take this precious item, Angelo claimed that the gods feared it, and wished to obtain it only for the sake of destroying it. But it could not harm a mortal.

“How do you know all this?” Gregor had asked, eventually. “And why can’t you tell me all that you know?”

“I shouldn’t know any of it,” Angelo had said in a hushed whisper. “I overheard things that I shouldn’t have. I’m afraid they’ll find out.”

Gregor had not pressed him further, but embraced him, and promised, “Do not fear, Angelo. I’ll protect you. And we will take this precious treasure for ourselves.”

And so the journey to Fang Island had begun, with Angelo now among his motley crew. The rest of the crew did not like the slender fellow, nor the way Gregor favored him, but Angelo stayed strong in their midst. And as the Lucky Licker sliced deeper into the Kelt Seas, Angelo opened up to Gregor like a flower. Every day he shared something new about himself or his past. And, more to the point, he shared his knowledge of Fang Island.

Gregor decided that now was as good a time as any to press him a little further. “Angelo, can you tell me anything more about the treasure? My men are getting restless. And frankly, so am I.”

Angelo grew very quiet. He hid his eyes under golden lashes as he considered this. “I suppose I can tell you that the item wields a tremendous power.”

“Oh.” On the one hand Gregor was intrigued; on the other he didn’t see this item translating easily to goldons. “Unless it can turn dust into diamonds, I’m not sure why I should care about that. I’m not looking to start any wars.”

“Then you can sell it to someone who does care,” said Angelo. “Maybe even a god. And I can tell you something else. There is a god in a land far east of here, the kingdom of Hanubi, that has already offered a fortune to anyone who brings him this item.”

Gregor didn’t feel particularly consoled by that prospect. As much as he might like to meet a god in person, he didn’t fancy trying to sell to one. If a god really wanted the item, he might very well take it. Then again, something had kept the gods from taking the item from the island to begin with. Gregor shook his head angrily at the strangeness of it all.

“You said a man guards the cave of treasure. A great warrior. Do you really think my crew can defeat him if no one else has before?”

“I have faith in you,” said Angelo, and snuggled closer to him. There was a finality to his statement, as if he had said all he would say for now. They lay in silence for awhile, listening to the creak of the timbers and the lap of the water against the walls. Then, quietly, “Do you think we’ll get there soon?”

“Hard to say. The map to this place is quite … indecisive.” Pessimism soured Gregor’s tone. “And a storm is coming tonight. It may set us back a day or two.”

“Or it may not, if we’re lucky.” Angelo reached over and drew shapes on Gregor’s chest. “You worship the god of luck, don’t you? You should pray to him tonight.”

“Lokke? Yes. Maybe I will.” Gregor did not care to admit that his last prayer to Lokke had been years ago. He still kept the statues and charms around his cabin. But ever since he heard about the events back in Dearen—about the awakening of Friva, and the fiery rampage of Belazar—he wondered if his own god lay dormant. He would give anything to meet the god of guile and luck. He had worshiped Lokke ever since he was a young boy, searching for scraps of food in the dark ravines of Vikand. But Lokke had not shown his face to any humans that he knew of. Perhaps Gregor worshiped no more than a shadow.

“What’s the matter?” said Angelo, studying him all too closely.

Gregor sighed. The only problem with Angelo opening up to him was that the fellow grew more inquisitive at the same time. “I was just thinking about … my old life.”

“In Vikand?” Angelo’s voice rose with interest. “And Dearen?”

“Yes.” Gregor could not keep some irritation from his tone. Somehow, Angelo already knew more about him than his own crew. How could this fellow manipulate him so easily?

“And King Darius? You served him personally, didn’t you?”

“Indeed I did.” Gregor’s grip on Angelo tightened as a surge of anger rushed through him. “But his real name wasn’t Darius. He was a Wolven named Sean, and he lied to everyone about it. I admired him for that at first, until it ruined me. He’s the reason I had to flee from a perfectly good life in Dearen and become a fucking pirate.”

“Even now, you still can’t forgive him for such a thing?”

Gregor cocked an eyebrow at his curious bedfellow. “What’s it to you?”

“I just figured you liked being Greedy Gregor. And …” Angelo smirked and played with his hair some more. “I’m curious how long you hold a grudge.”

“Sixteen years, I suppose. Because no, I don’t forgive him. He fucked everything up for me. I lived like a prince in that palace. And my gods-damned devotion to him was my very downfall. What does it matter? If I ever saw him again, I’d have to flee for my life. He swore an oath to Belazar that he’d kill me if I ever told anyone who he was. Which is exactly what I did, before I got the hell out of there.”

“Oh.” Angelo suddenly became very still. “I didn’t know that part.”

Gregor frowned at him. “Why would you?”

Angelo sat up and reached for his clothes. Gregor grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

“Angelo! Why is that so important? And why are you asking me all these things, anyway?”

Angelo sighed. His small frame withered as he hunched in on himself. His body went limp in Gregor’s grip. Gregor gulped. Whatever Angelo was about to say, it must be be very bad news. “There are a few things I haven’t told you, Gregor. You know that. I thank you for trusting me anyway. I don’t want to betray that trust. But … one of the reasons I thought you’d made a good captain for this journey is because of your history with the man who guards the cave.”

“What?” The blood drained from Gregor’s face. Suddenly he found it very difficult to breathe. “The great warrior?”

“Yes.” Angelo met his gaze reluctantly. “He’s King Darius. That is … he’s Sean.”

Gregor’s heart stopped. For a long while he couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. Only see Sean’s blazing red eyes as the Wolven snarled in the moonlight, If you ever tell anyone my true identity, I’ll kill you. And on this, I swear to Belazar.

“YOU FUCKING IDIOT!”

Gregor grabbed him and shook him so fiercely they both fell to the floor, Gregor on top. He normally didn’t think of himself as a violent person. But in this very moment he saw his life flashing before his eyes, ending on the tip of one of Sean’s many blades, and it was all because of Angelo. So he shook the fellow until his teeth rattled, and it was only because they’d just had sex that Gregor didn’t wrap his hands around the man’s throat.

“You’ve fucking ruined me! I’m not stepping onto the same island as that Wolven! I would DIE! You can forget about getting your gods-damned treasure! And I can forget about being a captain! I just told my crew they’d get enough money to last a lifetime! Now they’ll despise me forever! Because I’m turning this fucking boat around!”

Gregor got back up and scrambled around for his clothes.

“Gregor, please. Don’t do anything rash.”

“RASH! It’s not a matter of being RASH! It’s a matter of living or dying!”

“You served him for a couple of years, didn’t you? Surely he cares about you enough to overlook one mistake.”

“One mistake! I told his wife he was the assassin who killed her brother—and would probably kill her, too!”

“Maybe he can be reasoned with.”

“He swore an oath to Belazar! He has no fucking choice!” Now mostly dressed, Gregor didn’t bother buttoning his shirt, just threw his jacket over it. “And if I wish to live, I have no choice either!”

“Gregor—”

Gregor opened the door of his quarters, caring little that he left Angelo exposed on the floor behind him. That hardly seemed to matter when a gust of wind rushed into the chamber, blowing off the hat Gregor had just placed on his head. Cups and candlesticks rolled across his room. Gregor struggled to pull the door shut behind him.

He thrust his weight forward and cut through the wall of wind. His jacket and hair battered his body and slowed his progress. He squinted through the thrashing tendrils to see that the men on deck stood gawking at something ahead of them. Gregor followed their gazes to the sea beyond the bowsprit.

“Oh no.”

The purple clouds he’d spotted from a distance now filled the sky before him. The tumultuous billows cast deep black shadows into the swirling waters before the Lucky Licker. Rains and winds rushed from the heavens and stirred the seas into chaos. Waves thrashed high and wide, clashing against each other in the throes of opposing winds. Lashing wind spun in swirls forming miniature cyclones. The frothing storm of chaos sped towards them, like a curtain that would soon close over the existence of the Lucky Licker.

Tying back his hair, Gregor made his way up to the wheel, where he found Hogan clenching the wood with white fingers.

“It’s a bedlam, Captain.”

End of Excerpt

Edric the Wild Releasing Today!

Now released!

1059 AD: Edric, a young Anglo-Saxon, leads a pleasant life hunting in the woods or dancing in taverns until his Norman neighbor 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. This Robin Hood-esque story features many historical figures and villains cruel enough to be in a Grimm fairy tale.
Cover art by Del Melchionda

Get it in paperback at Amazon

Get it for the Kindle

Get it for the Nook, iPhone, or other devices

The book will soon spread to other retailers and be available directly from additional stores. Please note that if you’re getting the paperback version, the price will go up very soon, as soon as tomorrow. The current price is the launch day special. So get it at this price while you can!

Kirkus Reviews wrote up a lovely review of Edric the Wild, which I am pleased to share with you here. I don’t believe it has shown up on their website yet but should very soon.

Kirkus’s review:

In the third installment of her Sons of Mercia series, Woods (Godric the Kingslayer, 2011, etc.) steers real-world historical hero Edric the Wild through bars, battlefields and his bold stand against the Norman Conquest.

This reimagined story of Edric’s life begins with him as a 16-year-old boy who awakens the morning after a brawl with Osbern FitzRichard, only to find himself accused of killing one of Osbern’s knights. The courtroom declaration of Edric’s innocence is only one juncture of the multifaceted, often brutal relationship between Edric—noble-hearted son of the “Kingslayer”—and Osbern, an authoritative young Norman who acts like a madman and struggles with a voice in his head he attributes to Ezekiel. Edric and Osbern, the two enemies, battle against a backdrop of English–Norman distrust. From strained meetings with their fathers to their unconventional means of embarking on matrimony, the off-and-on rivals are frequently juxtaposed to powerful effect. When Edric proposes to a probable fairy woman he barely knows, both of the boys’ grips on reality become questionable. What at first appears to be an open-and-shut case of insanity softens into possibility, as certain outlandish claims by Osbern, via his personal channel to Ezekiel, come to fruition. The plot takes alternating forms of dual family sagas, wartime actioner, traditional epic fantasy and humor-tinged thriller, which Woods skillfully layers with an appealing writing style. There are frequent surprises, too, and history buffs hungry for lucid detail will be pleased by the story’s impressive level of historical accuracy.

A tense, occasionally explosive epic of family, friends and foes.

–Kirkus Reviews

**

I sincerely hope you enjoy the conclusion of the Sons of Mercia series.

Edric the Wild Excerpt

Well everyone, it has been fun sharing the Last Tales with you. I have already begun to miss the world of Anglo-Saxon England and all the characters I’ve gotten to know so well over the last few years. But you can stay with them for awhile longer. Next Tuesday, October 2, the final volume releases. I sincerely hope you enjoy the story of Edric, Osbern, Geoffrey, Audrey, and the many more characters of Edric the Wild!

If you’d like a head-start, I’ve provided the first 17 pages of the novel below. Enjoy!

Releasing October 2, 2012
Cover art by Del Melchionda

 

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.”

** END OF EXCERPT **

Last Tales of Mercia 10: Osbern the Son

Here is the final installment of the Last Tales! Only two more weeks until the release of Edric the Wild!

The keep of the Norman castle is finally finished. But when Osbern cannot convince the Saxon Edric to attend the celebration, his own resentment surfaces.

Written by Jayden Woods

Edited by Malcolm Pierce

 *

Download Epub, PDF, or Mobi for Kindle

*

The ten Last Tales of Mercia are stand-alone short stories featuring real historical figures and characters from the Sons of Mercia series. You may read them independently as quick glimpses into an ancient world, or as a preface to the novel, Edric the Wild. For more news and updates on the Sons of Mercia series, visit www.jaydenwoods.com.

**

SHROPSHIRE

1058 A.D.

The stone keep of Richard’s castle was finished, and Richard planned a great feast in honor of its construction.

Osbern could not remember ever feeling as excited about anything as he felt about the upcoming feast. At last, he would be able to invite people to his home and allow them to enjoy the comforts of the castle. Everyone would witness his father’s achievement and celebrate its glory alongside him. Perhaps they would finally appreciate the greatness of his Norman heritage and realize that it deserved respect. Even the Saxon slaves could bask in their accomplishment and find respite now that they’d finished their work.

And yet as he rode through the town of Shrewsbury, he had a great deal of trouble getting other people excited.

“Free food for all of you!” he cried until his voice became hoarse. “Come to Richard’s castle on Sun’s day after church to celebrate its completion. Who will be there?”

The people of the streets responded with silence. Most did not even look at him. The few that did had frowns on their faces and looked away quickly.

This should have been a thriving market day, full of baskets of fish, bowls of vegetables, the flash of coins, and fresh honeyed bread. Here on the slopes of Shrewsbury, only a few buildings away from the towering stronghold, should have been the busiest spot of all. Osbern had expected to smell a dozen flavors of food and flowers, hopefully overpowering the stench of cow shit and fresh wool. He had thought he might even be able to hear the minstrel who sometimes roamed these parts—what was his name? Sigurd? In any case, Osbern had looked forward to this ride across Shropshire with Ralph, and especially to the town of Shrewsbury. Osbern truly enjoyed Shrewsbury on days such as this. He liked celebrating the fruits of anyone’s labor. Hard work deserved respect.

But the longer he and Ralph remained in the town streets, the emptier they became.

Contrary to common opinion, Osbern generally liked watching the Anglo-Saxon people in the midst of their normal lives. Sometimes he found their ways foolish, that was true. But he had learned to be patient with their slow realization of Norman wisdom. Based on the stories his father told him, he felt amazed that a country plagued for centuries by Vikings and only recently freed from the reign of a Viking king could go on pretending from day to day that war was a far and distant thing. The Saxons lived generally peaceful lives, more concerned with tending their fields or shearing their sheep than protecting themselves from the threat of battle. And yet Osbern knew that they could prove fearsome in some situations. The dichotomy fascinated him.

They could go on pretending that the threat of warfare did not hang over them. But when reality proved otherwise, they would all learn to appreciate Richard’s castle—whether by standing inside its walls or outside of them.

“Free food!” he cried. “Free food for anyone who—”

“Osbern.”

Twisting his horse’s reins, Osbern turned to see a familiar young man standing nearby. The fifteen-year-old stood with his arms crossed next to a cart full of logs. But that did not give him away so much as his head of thick red curls. “Edric Godricson.”

“The food isn’t free if people have to go to your castle and grovel at your feet for it.”

Osbern inhaled sharply. His horse stirred beneath him as his muscles clenched with anger. He reached down to steady the mare with his hand and perhaps draw from her strength. “I disagree. They should be honored by the opportunity to roam through the castle as guests.”

“Even though their children built it for you?”

“It was their duty.” Osbern gnashed his teeth with anger. He had hoped Edric of all people might wish to attend the feast. Edric had visited Richard’s castle on a few occasions. When Osbern first gave him the tour many years ago, he had looked impressed. He had returned a few more times with his father, Godric, who came to see Lord Richard. Richard and Godric liked to meet privately; Osbern suspected that Godric gave Richard some sort of military advice. In the meantime, Osbern had been forced to spend time with Edric. But he had not fully resented the experience.

Ralph nudged his horse forward, sensing his lord’s inner turmoil. “Hey Edric,” he said. “You may have more fun than you think. I expect to see a few pretty ladies there.” He winked.

This seemed to get Edric’s attention.

Irritated by Ralph’s jocularity, Osbern grunted and climbed off his horse. He preferred being on his horse’s back to his own feet, but somehow he felt it important to speak to Edric on ground level—even if he still towered a little over the Saxon. The mare snorted as Osbern pulled her after him, loping slightly on his crooked foot.

“Listen, Edric. I …” Osbern stopped just in front of Edric and looked down at him. Edric did not have a particularly intimidating demeanor. He still had somewhat childish features and a much smaller build than Osbern. But his eyes blazed back at Osbern with a dismantling ferocity. Osbern wilted slightly and lowered his voice. “I thought you enjoyed visiting the castle. And now that the keep is finished, it is truly magnificent. You should see it.”

“I pretended to enjoy it,” said Edric, “so that when you weren’t paying attention I could slip some coins to your slaves.”

“You … what? Why would you do that?” Osbern snorted. “Foolish boy. Those workers are beneath the likes of you and me. In any case, most of them are free now, and they can cease to concern you.”

“Free? They live in fear of you and your ‘magnificent’ castle. You can’t even pay them to come to your feast. Is that why you rode all the way to Shrewsbury? You know you’ll have to search far and wide for attendants.”

“Now listen here, you ignorant—” He was already reaching for Edric and grabbing his tunic before he had thought it all through.

Fortunately, Ralph remained nearby and must have seen this coming. He interjected sharply. “My lord, I think we’re wasting our time here. No need to waste more of it.”

Osbern held Edric by the hem of his tunic, breathing heavily with anger. He felt further confounded by the fact that rather than being scared, Edric looked vaguely satisfied.

“Go on then,” said Edric. “Why use just your hands? There must be a reason you always carry a sword on your hip. If you’re going to be a bully you might as well play the role properly.”

“Play the role properly …?” The words disturbed him in a way he could not explain. He released Edric, shrinking back towards his horse. He grabbed her saddle for support, finding himself dizzy.

“Osbern?” said Ralph. “Are you well?”

A surge of anger brought Osbern back to his senses. “I’m your lord,” he snarled. “And I am well enough. But you are right. We are certainly wasting our time here.” He sent a last glare in Edric’s direction as he climbed back up his horse. “I’m glad you’re not coming, imbécile.”

He lashed his horse more fiercely than he’d intended and hurried out of Shrewsbury.

*

Osbern returned to the castle late that night and realized he no longer felt excited about the feast. He walked up the barbican to the keep, then through the darkness of the first level to the flickering torches of the second. He did not feel as proud of his home as he wanted to. It did not even feel much like home.

His father had gone to bed early, probably because his ankles had been bothering him of late. Osbern felt reluctant to go to his own bed. The profound silence of his chambers required some adjustment. Sometimes he actually missed the sounds of slaves or rowdy guards outside the flimsy wooden walls of his previous chambers, even though he had complained of them at the time. The silence of the keep could somehow seem deafening.

He found Sir Geoffrey sitting in the dining hall next to an empty goblet and a pitcher of wine. Osbern rarely saw the knight drink. Then again, Geoffrey only seemed to be glaring at the wine rather than touching it.

Osbern sat further down the table and took some stale bread from a bowl. He ate it quickly, then shifted in his seat, wondering what to do next.

“Sit still,” snapped Geoffrey.

Osbern jerked with surprise. He might have reprimanded Geoffrey for taking that tone if his heart wasn’t pounding so quickly with fear.

“Please, Suzerain,” the knight added absently.

Osbern gulped, wondering what thoughts ran through the older man’s mind. Geoffrey had not been himself ever since five slaves escaped under his watch, the sixth having died at Geoffrey’s hand. It was unlike the hawk-eyed knight to make such a clumsy mistake. Lord Richard had been furious with him and strictly limited his duties ever since. Fortunately for Geoffrey, the keep had nearly been finished anyway, and the slaves would have been freed by now. The punishment was not as harsh as it could have been.

“Why did it happen?” Osbern asked suddenly.

The knight’s pale eyes blinked with surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Why did the slaves escape?”

A slight snarl pulled at Geoffrey’s lips. The expression on Geoffrey’s face might have made Osbern flee in terror if he didn’t already feel so hopeless. Why not see what happened when he got Geoffrey riled? There was nothing else to do in this God-forsaken place.

“You must have let them get away with it,” Osbern pressed. “Or something must have gone terribly wrong. So why did it happen?”

Geoffrey stood up. Osbern’s stomach rolled inside of him. Geoffrey could kill him right here and now and no one would be around to stop him. After all, who knew what this knight would do lately? But Geoffrey only turned to pour himself a goblet of wine.

The knight sniffed the liquor carefully. Then he brought it to his lips and sipped. A calm settled over him as he swallowed the sweet liquid. His eyes peered through his yellow bangs into the shadows of the hall, as if into another time and place.

“Do you feel as if you have any control over what happens to you in this life, Suzerain?”

The question caught Osbern by such surprise that he needed a long time to think about it. Even then, the best response he could muster was, “Somewhat.”

“‘Somewhat.’” Geoffrey sneered at him, but part of the expression looked like a genuine smile. “You surprise me, Osbern. I thought that you of all people would say ‘yes.’”

Osbern decided to overlook the fact that Geoffrey had called him by name. Doing so might ruin this otherwise interesting moment. Osbern found himself looking the knight in the eyes and confessing, “I never chose to move to Engla-lond.”

His own bluntness astounded him. What if his father walked in right now? What if he had heard the resentment in Osbern’s voice? For once Osbern didn’t care. Let the ugly truth release itself.

“I didn’t even choose to build this fucking castle,” grumbled Osbern. “So why would I believe I had much control over my life?”

“Because you act as if you do every day.” Geoffrey’s eyes seemed to pierce him with their intensity. The knight leaned slightly closer. “You issue commands. You cling to your sword. You wish desperately to discover that one of your actions has achieved the desired response. Yet again and again you fail.”

“Careful, knight.” Osbern felt himself trembling slightly, and he prayed that Geoffrey did not notice. “What happens to us is God’s will, in the end.”

Geoffrey set down his goblet, still nearly brimming. “Cling to what illusions you’d like.” He wiped his lips with the tips of his fingers, and looked directly out the window. Osbern thought the sun must blaze straight into Geoffrey’s eyes, but the knight did not flinch. “There is no control. No real certainties. We shouldn’t even be here. God raped the sky and we appeared. So now He is trying to kill us.”

A long silence must have passed after that. Osbern didn’t really know. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Only stare at Geoffrey in shocked silence.

Geoffrey finally turned to look at him, his eyes still gleaming with the glow of the sun. Then he gave a low chuckle.

Osbern shook his head and finally returned to his senses, realizing he must look like a dullard. “How long did it take you to come up with that nonsense?” he sputtered.

Geoffrey just kept chuckling.

Last Tales of Mercia 9: Sigurd the Gleeman

 

Sigurd, once a minstrel and royal courtier, struggles to determine the nature of his relationship with Thegn Godric when Lord Alfric enters his life.

Written by Jayden Woods

Edited by Malcolm Pierce

 *

Download Epub, PDF, or Mobi for Kindle

*

The ten Last Tales of Mercia are stand-alone short stories featuring real historical figures and characters from the Sons of Mercia series. You may read them independently as quick glimpses into an ancient world, or as a preface to the novel, Edric the Wild. For more news and updates on the Sons of Mercia series, visit www.jaydenwoods.com.

**

SHROPSHIRE

1058 A.D.

When Sigurd glimpsed the Norman castle on the hill ahead of him, dismay filled his heart and brought him to a stop.

More of the castle had been turned into stone than the last time he’d seen it. Wooden palisades still covered a few sections, but rocks and mortar formed most of the curtain wall spreading out from the gatehouse. A tall stone keep sprouted out from the back of the motte and bailey formation, and though a few men still worked on the top level, the tower looked nearly complete. Sigurd knew that Lord Richard FitzScrob had faced plenty of setbacks since his arrival in Engla-lond, whether from his own tenants, Welsh raids, or that rambunctious Outlaw a few years ago. But if any foes decided to go against Lord Richard now, they would have a very hard time of it.

Sigurd wondered how fun it might be to live and work in a place like that.

Then he looked down at himself and considered how ridiculous he looked. For the first time in years, he had dressed in one of his favorite outfits from his days as a royal minstrel. His hose were red on one leg and yellow on the other. Flamboyant yellow embroidery flowed up the sleeves and seams of his red tunic. The clothes were a little loose on him, for he had lost a bit of weight since moving to Shrewsbury, even though he had little weight to lose to begin with. He hoped his tightened belt hid the sagging cloth well enough, but he couldn’t say for sure. Meanwhile he’d trimmed his beard down so that his golden hair surrounded only his lips and chin, leaving the sides of the jaw bare. He had covered his ear-length hair with a little green cap topped with a feather.

Two Norman soldiers walked past him on the road. They paused their conversation to turn and stare at him. They said something to each other in Norman and laughed uproariously. Sigurd understood the language, but purposefully kept himself from interpreting it. He didn’t need to, anyway. He knew the truth. He looked like an idiot, and he had been a fool to walk all the way from Shrewsbury with the hope that Lord Richard FitzScrob might hire him as a minstrel.

Once the soldiers passed, Sigurd tore off his cap and flung it into the road. Then he slung his little harp over his shoulder, turned around, and walked back the way he had come.

Who was he trying to fool? He was not a minstrel anymore. Sure, he could sing a few songs and tell plenty of naughty riddles. He could put up with a certain amount of humiliation for the sake of entertaining the audience. But there was more to being a gleeman than just a little song and dance, which most people did not realize. Being a minstrel for rich lords meant listening to their intimate conversations when he wasn’t putting on a show for them. It meant knowing a great deal about the local politics, and it meant that a lot of people would foolishly trust him with their secrets because they considered him unimportant. To the contrary, he might also have to provide counsel to those he served in their most desperate moments, for when they tired of listening to the drivel of their courtly peers, they would turn to the unassuming gleeman for advice.

Sigurd had experienced this with every lord he ever served. He knew more about King Canute and Lord Goodwin than he would ever tell anyone, even though both of them were now dead. The gleeman’s secret was that he acted like a fool and most people thought of him as such, but in actuality, he could endure degradation because he understood the gravity of his own existence.

At least, he once had. But he had also grown very weary of it. He despised the greed and blood-lust of most the lords he encountered. He hated holding secrets, particularly from people he cared about. And he tired of carrying the responsibility of knowledge. He had never wanted any of that. He had become a minstrel only for the sake of entertaining people. And he could no longer comfort himself with the notion that he was important, for he wasn’t. That would be the biggest joke of all. Once upon a time he listened in on King Canute’s most intimate conversations, but now he was no more than poor Saxon churl, living in the back country of rural Engla-lond.

“Excuse me. Is this yours?”

Sigurd turned with a start, wiping his eyes. To his embarrassment, a teardrop had begun to form on his lashes. But he discarded the evidence quickly and faced the stranger with a well-practiced smile.

His eyes took a moment to adjust to the brightness of the sun behind the stranger’s shoulder. Once they did, Sigurd’s smile shifted into an expression of surprise. The man walking towards him was exceptionally handsome. His chiseled features were simply stunning in their perfection, from the sharp edge of his nose to the flowing eyebrows over his dark hazel eyes. The square shape of his jaw accentuated the pink softness of his lips. He seemed impeccably clean and incredibly rich, from his bright blue linens to the embroidered saddle of the horse he led behind him. His yellow hair flowed in a swoop past his ears and shone like gold in the sunlight.

Sigurd realized that he had been staring for far too long and blinked in a desperate attempt to dispel the man’s image. He forced his attention onto the little green cap in the stranger’s hand.

“Oh, er, yes, I suppose it is.” Sigurd reached out and swiped the cap quickly, as if afraid their hands might touch. He dusted it off and stuffed it under his arm. Then he bowed low, mostly in an effort to hide from the man’s piercing gaze. Without thinking, he fell into his practiced gesture of twisting his legs dramatically and extending one arm with a flourish. “My thanks to you.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen a cap like that before.” The man spoke before Sigurd had a chance to escape.

“I imagine not. I had it uniquely made.”

“I see. Where are you from?”

Sigurd straightened enough to notice the man smiling. Did he find Sigurd funny, already? Sigurd did not like amusing people unintentionally. “Wiltshire, once upon a time,” the minstrel said sourly.

“Forgive me. I did not mean to pry. But you seem like an interesting man, and I could use some interesting conversation after my very dull visit with Lord Richard.”

“Oh?” Sigurd glanced back at the castle, wondering what business the two had with each other.

“Would you care to walk with me? We seem to be going the same direction.”