Free The Sixth Lost Tale of Mercia: Hastings the Hearth Companion by Jayden Woods

The Sixth Lost Tale of Mercia:
    Hastings the Hearth Companion
    Jayden Woods
    Smashwords Edition
    Copyright 2010 Jayden Woods
    Edited by Malcolm Pierce

    *

    “ A.D. 1004. This year came
Sweyne with his fleet to Norwich, plundering and burning the whole
town.”

    — Anglo-Saxon Chronicles,
Entry for Year 1004

    *

    NORWICH
    1004 A.D.

    Hastings and his horse raced through a
hundred miles of wetlands and heath to find their destination
obscured in a haze of smoke.
    Overnight, the Vikings had reduced
Norwich—the seat of the East Anglian government and one of
Engla-lond’s greatest cities—to ash and rubble. Families stood next
to the remainders of their homes, watching as the unquenchable
flames consumed the last beams. People burned their fingers digging
through embers for scraps and precious belongings. The injured sat
in the ash-ridden streets, moaning helplessly as their wounds
festered. Hastings was not sure whether the water gathering in his
eyes was a result of his own sympathy or the burning smoke that the
breeze threw against him.
    Even the high reeve’s hall, on a small hill
in the middle of the city, had not escaped the Viking attack. The
east wall had been severely damaged, so that the whole building
seemed to be leaning, ready to collapse. Hastings wondered if he
had arrived too late. Perhaps the witan had already met, or it
would never meet, for the wise men would not even have a safe place
in which to gather and discuss their future. It was difficult to
imagine a future at all when faced with such immediate
devastation.
    But then a breeze blew, as if from the ocean,
fresh, salty, and clarifying. Clouds of smoke rolled away, and rays
of sunshine illuminated a small gathering of men near the high
reeve’s hall, meeting and conversing despite their miserable
circumstances: the wise men. Hastings heaved a deep breath,
dragging himself and his horse towards them.
    The men took little notice of him at first;
no doubt they had to ignore almost everything around them in order
to concentrate at all. In addition, Hastings looked more like a
worthless beggar than the royal retainer that he was. He had ridden
through fens and marshes and mud and filth until he felt sodden by
the wet earth from his tunic to his loincloth. But even this did
not weigh him down so much as his own exhaustion. His knees
trembled underneath him and he could hardly keep his head up. His
horse was the only obvious indication of any worthwhile status. A
small crowd had already gathered around the important meeting, so
Hastings seemed like yet another audience member, straining to get
a closer position. Thanks to the horse plodding next to him, people
threw him angry looks, but moved out of his way.
    By the time Hastings was close enough to
eavesdrop, no words were actually being spoken. In a circle stood
the East Anglian wise men—thegns, reeves, and members of the
clergy—while in the middle a large man paced back and forth, back
and forth, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.
Hastings had probably glimpsed him before in Lundenburg, but even
if he had not, he could have easily guessed that this was the high
reeve, Ulfcytel. He was a large man, sporting short blond hair and
a grizzly beard. The vibrations of his pounding feet seem to carry
all the way to where Hastings stood. His name and fair features
were a strong indication of his Scandinavian origin, but despite
all that, his lordship over the Anglo-Saxons was apparent by the
way he held their rapt attention. When he spoke, his hoarse,
booming voice rattled Hastings to his core.
    “ I am Ulfcytel,” he yelled,
“and I say there is nothing else we can do. Gather the
Danegald.”
    A soft moan of dismay carried over the crowd,
adding to the chorus of groans already echoing through the
ruins.
    Sighing, Hastings leaned against the ribs of
his horse, breathing nearly as heavily as the great beast, and felt
a moment of guilty relief. Perhaps, indeed, he had come too late.
Perhaps