Free The Third Lost Tale of Mercia: Aydith the Aetheling by Jayden Woods

The Third Lost Tale of
Mercia:
    Aydith the
Aetheling
    Jayden Woods
    Smashwords Edition
    Copyright 2010 Jayden Woods
    Edited by Malcolm Pierce

    “ This year there was great
commotion in England in consequence of an invasion by the Danes,
who spread terror and devastation wheresoever they went, plundering
and burning and desolating the country with such rapidity, that
they advanced in one march as far as the town of Alton
...”

    --Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, Entry for Year 1001
A.D.

    *

    LUNDENBURG
    1001 A.D.

    Aydith’s heart seemed to throb in her
throat, so completely did her rage and sorrow fill her. Breathing
became difficult as she waited for her father to exit the hall, but
she stood firm, swallowing down what fear she could. She watched as
the various nobles and clergymen exited the room first, their faces
cheerful, though she did not see anything to be cheerful about.
Some of the faces comforted her, such as Bishop Alphege’s, who wore
his usual expression of stoic calm. Others infuriated her, such as
the smirk of the man named Lord Alfric, who had betrayed her father
once before but now strolled about the palace as if he still ruled
Mercia as ealdorman.
    Even more troubling, she realized, was the
number of faces missing. Recently the Danes had pillaged all the
way to Alton and met with a Saxon army, but so many great men died
that day, no one could consider the battle a victory. Among the
dead was the kind and scholarly Athelward, as well as Lord Leofric
of Whitchurch, and Wulfhere the thegn, and high-steward Lord
Leofwin, and Bishop Elfy’s son Godwin ... and many more which she
could not name. Her arms trembled as she clenched her fists at her
sides. Despite the deaths of those brave men, Sweyn Forkbeard
pillaged on with his army of Vikings. From Alton the pagans had
marched on to Devonshire, where another one of her father’s lords
betrayed the Anglo-Saxons. His name was Pallig, and he had been a
Dane living amongst the English; perhaps King Ethelred should have
seen it coming.
    Her fury only raged hotter the longer she
waited, as did her determination to speak her mind. And though the
men passed by her and she knew almost all of them by name, as they
knew hers, they did not bother to look at her or address her, for
she was only an eleven-year-old female aetheling standing in the
middle of the palace. Even the fact she was an aetheling hardly
seemed to matter; after all, Ethelred had ten children in all.
    At last, the king himself exited the hall.
Her stomach turned a somersault. King Ethelred looked rather
pleased with himself: his cheeks were rosy above his fair beard,
his blue eyes were crisp and bright, and his crown looked freshly
polished. Normally, Aydith would be proud of him, for of course a
king should always appear confident, no matter the circumstances.
What enraged her was the real reason why he felt victorious, which
had nothing to do with the Vikings.
    When he saw her, his smile fell. “Aydith?”
He scratched at his beard and glanced nervously about, as if hoping
to see one of her retainers come fetch her away. “Something
wrong?”
    “ I ... I heard you,” she
gasped. “I heard everything. How could you?”
    King Ethelred’s cheeks turned deep red. She
was not sure if the cause was embarrassment or fury—or perhaps
both. “You should not have heard anything,” he snapped. Of course,
he did not even address her question. He probably never would. “So
forget you heard it at all!”
    Despite herself, Aydith felt tears filling
her eyes, blurring her vision. She knew it was bad for an aetheling
to be seen crying, especially with so many important men watching,
but she couldn’t help herself. “Mother has not even been dead a
year.”
    He straightened himself, which was no small
feat under the heaviness of his thickly woven garments. “A king
must have a queen.”
    “ But Emma of Normandy!
She’s one of them!” Aydith was getting carried away with herself,
practically screaming.